


Tilting at Windmills

by riyku



Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 06:16:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riyku/pseuds/riyku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a student of folklore and mythology, Jared is more at home in dusty libraries than in remote mountain villages, but curiosity and the lure of adventure have him following a path laid out in a centuries old journal. He chooses Jensen - or perhaps it's more like Jensen chooses him – as a guide, the only man off-kilter enough to buy into his plans. Each and every step takes them deeper into a world Jared never knew existed outside of fairy tales; a place where people still believe in magic and it's important to never forget to feed the dragon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tilting at Windmills

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 2012 spn_j2_bigbang

 

  


 

 

  
Ina peeks at Jared through a messy fringe of long, dark bangs. One of her eyes is a deep brown, nearly black, but the other is a startling and icy shade of blue. Bright. Almost transparent.  
  
The contrast is magnetic and Jared tries not to stay fixed on it. Instead he busies himself setting up his small voice recorder, checks the memory to make sure there’s plenty to spare, then sets it off to the side of the tiny round table, trying to make it as unobtrusive as possible. He motions toward the steady red light of the thing apologetically.  
  
“Necessary evil,” he says. “I’d rather just take notes, but most of the time I can’t even read my own handwriting.”  
  
With an understanding nod, Ina admits, “I know. I’ve seen it.” Her voice is rich, deep and accented, slightly clipped in a way that tells Jared she’s at least partially the product of an English education. In response to Jared’s curious frown, she continues, “I snuck into your intro class a few times, just to see what all the talk is about. You’ve quite a reputation.”  
  
“I wouldn’t believe half of it, if I were you,” Jared says.  
  
“I have to say that I expected more of the absent-minded professor type,” Ina tells him. “You’re a good lecturer.”  
  
“A few years of doing this and you learn to fake it well enough.”  
  
They’re tucked into a corner table outside of the café attached to the university’s main library. The school is in the bottom dregs of final exams week, and the surrounding tables are crowded with students, their noses buried in books, note cards and laptops as they go through their various rituals of last minute cramming. Ina’s a little older than most of their neighbors at the coffee shop; she’d traveled to the States as an _au pair_ and has bought a couple more years here on a student visa.  
  
Summer has arrived a month too early and it’s hot today, the sky is hazy and pale, like the sun has bleached away all its color. Jared had offered Ina the seat shaded by the small awning on the side of the building, and now he’s too warm, feels the prickle of sweat between his shoulders. His shirt sticks to the small of his back. He loosens his tie and shrugs out of his sports jacket, then leans back in his chair and props his writing pad on his knee.  
  
Ina stirs her coffee, the specs of cinnamon melting into a swirl that reminds Jared of the Milky Way. She takes a small sip, then levels him a serious look before she speaks. “You want to know about the dragon.”  
  
Jared has to smile. She’s direct, doesn’t mince words, and right away he decides he likes her. “Actually, I was going to thank you for agreeing to talk with me, maybe ask you to pass my regards over to Professor Lyndon for setting this up. But hell, this works too.”  
  
“Back home we call it a _zmey_ , but you probably already knew that.”  
  
With a nod, Jared says, “Try not to think about what I might know. I want to hear what you think.”  
  
“I think it’s like the boogeyman. What do you anthropologists say? It’s a projection or something.” Ina gestures vaguely, searching for the word.  
  
“Archetypes,” Jared fills in the blank for her. “A representation of archetypal personalities.”  
  
“Exactly. Our myths are us, yes? They’re how we see the world, and how we explain it. Some farmer’s crops are blighted, they say the _zmey_ did it. The next year the crops are the best they’ve ever been. That’s the dragon as well. It’s all harmless, mostly.”  
  
“Mostly?” Jared asks.  
  
“They say a human can turn into one, become one, and that some of the older families in the area might have dragon blood in them. It can stay dormant until it doesn’t. Mine is one of the oldest families in the town. I spent the first ten years of my life checking in the mirror every night to see if I was growing wings under my arms.”  
  
Jared scribbles a few words onto his notepad: _social stratification---fear? Evil internalized?_ , and a quick reminder to check any connections between the historical Order of the Dragon and Ina’s family. It’s a long shot, but the region is right, and certainly worth a couple of hours spent in the databases.  
  
Ina points to her coffee cup after taking another sip. “Oh, and the wormwood tea. My grandmother used to make me drink it by the bucketful. Dreadful, no matter how much honey you put in it.”  
  
“Is that to stop the effects of the dragon blood?” Jared asks. He’s familiar with the use of wormwood in folk medicine. It’s said to help with stomach ailments and cure people of certain parasites, and he wonders how it managed to make the leap into dragon folklore.  
  
“It’s a deterrent,” Ina explains, “like garlic is to vampires, supposed to keep the thing away.”  
  
“Does it work? Has anyone ever seen it?”  
  
“Of course they have. A _zmey_ might be able to make itself invisible, but it can’t hide its shadow. Ask anyone over the age of fifty in the village and they’re more than happy to tell you. Flashes of something in the woods, unidentifiable tracks, a strange light shining through their windows at night. It glows when it flies.”  
  
Jared can’t help but ask the next question. “Have you? Have you ever seen it?”  
  
With a shrug, Ina says, “When you grow up believing in something, your eyes can play tricks on you.”  
  
“So you believe in it.” It’s not a question.  
  
“You must think we’re so backward. Quaint. Superstitious.”  
  
Superstition is Jared’s bread and butter. Figuring out what lies behind it, putting it into a cultural context has turned into his life’s work. “Not in the least,” he assures her. “Quite the opposite, actually.”  
  
“Sitting here, right now, I’m tempted to tell you that I don’t, but then again, I haven’t been home for a very long time. Years. Get me back there and…” Ina trails off, starts thoughtfully tapping a long, polished fingernail on the table. “All those old stories. There’s something to them, you know? Storms hardly ever cross into our valley, and the fog that rolls down from the foothills had a curious feel to it.”  
  
“How so?” Jared asks.  
  
“Thick,” she says. “Warm in the winter and cool in the summer. It clings. Wraps around you. Sometimes it smells like burning candles.” Ina shivers. “Did you know that the town elders still leave offerings to it on their doorsteps before the first planting?” She picks up her spoon, rubs a smudge off of the handle with her thumb as she thinks, and then lets it fall back to the saucer with a small clink. “I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t have wormwood tea in my cupboard right now.” She shakes her head. “It’s ridiculous. Who believes in magic anymore?”  
  
“It takes a miracle to know that miracles do exist,” Jared states. “Dragons are real if you believe in them.”  
  
“Is that a joke?”  
  
“No,” Jared says simply.  
  
“Does that mean that you believe in them?” Ina asks.  
  
Jared could circle the subject, cite ethnographies, the archaeology of it along with reams of folklore, several anthologies and a copy of his very own dissertation, then go on to tell her that belief in something far outweighs the facts and figures. But she’s been truthful with him, so she deserves the same.  
  
“Yes,” he says, “absolutely.”  
  


 

  
  
  
“I don’t wanna be a hard ass about this, but you had all semester to get it done.” Jared winces and wonders if he should have chosen his words a little more carefully. The kid sitting in the chair at the corner of his desk wrings his baseball cap between his hands, curls the brim of it until it forms a perfect circle then bends it back the other way.  
  
Jared just wants out of here. He’d come to his office after his interview with Ina thinking that he had an hour’s worth of loose ends to tie up, maybe two tops, long enough to get through the last of the make-up exams and zip the final grades off to the powers that be. Instead, he’d found a half a dozen students from his Intro to Anthropology class standing against the wall outside of his door, lined up like petitioners awaiting absolution. They’d filed in, one by one claiming illness and unforeseen circumstance, busted computers lost research.  
  
It all boils down to good old-fashioned procrastination, his students know it and Jared knows it too, but there’s a form that has to be followed with these types of things. A tradition of sorts, Jared supposes, and he’s a sucker for tradition. That pretty much goes without saying.  
  
The student launches into a sputtering speech, and Jared loses the thread of it about thirty seconds in. It’s the same dance, different song and Jared’s already made up his mind that he’ll make good on his reputation for being a pushover. He’ll up the ante and offer the kid an incomplete rather than a failing grade, so long as he turns in his term paper before the summer runs out. He stays quiet, chin propped on his knuckles. A thoughtful frown creases his forehead as he wonders if he can lug the small assortment of books and papers that he’s collected to his car in one trip or two.  
  
They strike a bargain, shake on it, and Jared follows him to the doorway, nipping at the guy’s heels and peeking out into the hallway. It’s nearly deserted, only closed doors lining both sides of the hall that open into empty classrooms. Low, murmuring voices can be heard coming from the archaeology lab situated past the bend in the hallway. Behind a set of glass doors in the other direction sits a bored looking temp, hired on to answer phones during the interim between spring and summer semesters. Jared feels the muscles in his neck relax a fraction, a small kickback to the old shock of relief that comes with summer vacation, something that he hasn’t felt since he was a kid. He heads back to his desk, palm skipping across the back of the worn, slouching overstuffed chair that is the centerpiece of the small room and has been his go-to nap spot for the last few years.  
  
Jared feels an ill-defined sort of nostalgia creeping in around the edges and he shrugs it away, marks one final ‘incomplete’ on the student ledger and holds it up. This is his final official act before his research sabbatical begins. Honestly, it’s a little anti-climactic. Not that Jared expects some kind of fanfare, twenty-one-gun salute, a parade or anything, although a little confetti might be a nice touch. Flicking the paper with his index finger, he mutters a quiet, “Finally,” to the empty room.  
  
He tucks a few remaining odds and ends into his boxes—a carefully folded topographical map of eastern Europe, some woodcuts that he’d taken a shine to, a small carved figurine of a wyrm given to him by an ex that he’d been too begrudgingly sentimental to get rid of—then spins in a slow circle, scanning the room. Sure, there’s an empty bookshelf where a fraction of his research used to reside, a note in his handwriting on the front of the tiny refrigerator inviting all comers to his stash of frozen candy bars, and the chair behind the desk is set up high to compensate for the length of his legs. Other than that, it’s as if he was never there.  
  
Campus has turned into a veritable ghost town by the time Jared dashes across the abandoned quad, squinting against the bright, early afternoon sunlight and awkwardly balancing two boxes. He veers from his path and heads into the physics building, nose wrinkling at the switch from the smell of fresh cut grass to the strong scent of cleaning supplies. He tries the main physics office but it’s locked up tight, and instead sneaks in through the lower entrance to the large lecture hall, dropping his boxes inside the door with a thud that echoes off of the tall ceiling.  
  
The huge whiteboard behind the vacant podium is filled with formulas and equations, scribbled in red, black, green and blue in some sort of color-coding that Jared can’t figure out. In his defense, most of it is written in Greek. Literally.  
  
Misha occupies a chair in the front row of the auditorium, sitting dead center and surrounded by a hundred or so empty seats. Hunched over, elbows on his knees and his fingers tented in front of his face, he doesn’t spare Jared so much as a glance when Jared settles into the seat beside him.  
  
“Dr. Padalecki,” he intones.  
  
“ _Mr._ Collins,” Jared replies.  
  
“Fuck off.”  
  
“Aw,” Jared teases, and jabs his ribs with an elbow. “You say the nicest things.”  
  
“Speaking of which, I read your book last night.”  
  
Jared’s not too sure how Misha got from one point to the next, but he rolls along with it. “One night,” Jared says, speaking to the empty room. “The thing sucked four years of my life outta me and he reads it in one night.”  
  
“I was waiting for the computer to finish running a mock-up.” Misha’s distracted, still scanning the whiteboard and poking his finger into thin air as if he’s working some sort of abacus that only he can see. To anyone else it might be off-putting, but Jared takes it in stride. Generally speaking, that’s the only viable way to take Misha: in stride. Misha continues, “The thing was riveting, and before you ask, I’m not being sarcastic.”  
  
It’s quite possibly the nicest thing the guy’s ever said to him, and Jared slouches down in his seat, equal parts fear and anticipation tangling into a knot in his stomach. Peer reviews and editors be damned, he values Misha’s opinion above the rest of them; the guy’s smart in a way that borders on scary. “On a scale of one to ten?” Jared asks.  
  
“A solid eight. Even with the cheat that you built into it.”  
  
Jared’s smile is a rueful thing. “Figured you’d be the one to pick up on that.”  
  
“Yeah, the footnote on page seventy-eight.”  
  
Before Jared can ask him how the hell he can pull that kind of trick out of his hat, Misha goes on. “You’re not supposed to do that, you know. Build a loophole to fall into smack in the middle of your hypothesis.”  
  
“That’s why it’s a footnote. The print is tiny. I was hoping no one would read it. Besides, what else could I do?”  
  
Misha rises, crosses to the whiteboard, erases a few black lines of an equation then replaces it with some green writing. “I don’t know. Keep your opinion out of it?”  
  
“In the interest of complete transparency I kinda had to include it. Hard science can’t explain everything. Not the kooky weather patterns. Not the fact that dragon myths have multiple points of origin. There are outliers in the data and—“  
  
Misha interrupts him. “It’s meteorology and mythology. Barely hard sciences. They’re too unpredictable. Besides, just because the god Sobek had the head of a crocodile doesn’t mean that the ancient Egyptians ever saw a dragon. It only means that they believed in crocodiles.”  
  
It’s an old argument, one that they both know neither will ever win. Academically, the two of them are like oil and water, but the fact is something that Jared can appreciate. It keeps him on his toes.  
  
Jared scrubs his hand through his hair and crosses the room to lean against the podium. “A very smart man once told me that the atomic world is nothing like the world we live in.”  
  
Misha spins and considers Jared, his chin notched upward and a cautious expression on his face, as if he’s waiting for Jared to pull out the ace he’s got shoved up his sleeve. “I remember,” he says slowly.  
  
“Now apply that to a belief system.”  
  
“Which one?”  
  
“Any will do.”  
  
“You can’t,” Misha says.  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because it’ll mean that I’ve lost this round.”  
  
Jared grins at him. “Then be thankful that we’ll always have another.”  
  
“Something that I await with bated breath and beating heart. How did your interview go, anyhow?” Misha says.  
  
“It might have caused a change in plans.” Jared’s not expected at Cambridge until the end of the month, at which point he’ll start his research fellowship. He’s been thinking about going back to his folks’ place for a much overdue visit, to eat his fill of his mother’s home cooking and try to con his sister into doing his laundry for a couple of weeks before heading overseas.  
  
“You wanna see it for yourself,” Misha says.  
  
“Occupational hazard,” Jared tells him. He’s cut from the same cloth as Malinowski and Whyte, believes that the only way to truly understand a thing is to be buried up to his neck in it. “The NEH isn’t paying me to piggyback a trip to Eastern Europe onto this.” He’d been given a grant to research artistic interpretations of St. George’s battle against the dragon, and can’t quite shake the feeling that what he’s planning lands smack in the middle of bait and switch territory.  
  
Misha shrugs. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”  
  
“Gotta say you have a point.”  
  
“It’s been known to happen. How’s your Bulgarian?” Misha asks.  
  
“Shaky.”  
  
“Russian?”  
  
“Slightly less shaky.”  
  
“Then you’ll be fine,” Misha assures him. "Listen. You're smart and you're stubborn and we both know how this one’s gonna play out." Misha pats his cheek in a way that manages to skip right past condescending and head straight for endearing. He turns his back to Jared, and cocks his head at the sprawl of formulas written across the board. "Now, quit wasting my time and get packing."  
  


 

  
  
  
Jared stretches, bumps his elbow against the large trunk beside the bed, and his heels bang on the metal rungs of the footboard. A stripe of hazy sunlight sneaks through the split in the heavy draperies.  
  
For a handful of seconds, Jared’s disoriented, knuckling the last dregs of sleep out of his eyes to the white-static noise of traffic and snatches of cut-off conversation. The last few days catch up with him and he remembers: Sofia.  
  
He’s late.  
  
He jolts out of bed and has to plant a palm on the wall to steady himself, then stomps his feet on the floor to get blood moving in that direction. Sleeping a full twelve hours folded into a bed about foot too short for him has left him achy and stiff.  
  
Jared dresses quickly. He's still working the tangles out of his hair with his fingers when he reaches the street corner across from the library. Traffic zips down the bright yellow cobblestone street: miniscule smart cars alongside huge tour busses, women in business attire and high heels on mopeds swerving between lanes.  
  
There's a small park in front of the library in full springtime bloom, bright flowerbeds nestled between sidewalks, and short, spindly trees with pale pink blossoms. Jared dodges a group of school-aged kids as they pose and take photos in front of the statue of Cyril and Methodius.  
  
The doors to the building open up into a circular foyer, and Jared comes to a stop. Old libraries have a particular quality to them; a distinct, hollow sort of hush paired with the smell of old paper. Nothing else quite matches up, and despite all the renovations and technological upgrades, this one has it.  
  
A reception desk sits to one side, it's curve mirroring that of the room. Jared introduces himself, and tries not to roll his eyes as the man makes a show of checking his watch against a schedule pinned to a clipboard.  
  
One short phone call and a few minutes later, a woman emerges from the glass doors that lead to the library proper, her blocky heels clacking against the marble floor. "Katrin Yosev," she says, hand already extended in Jared's direction. "It's an honor, Dr. Padalecki."  
  
"Jared, please," he urges. "And the honor is all mine." Katrin is the senior curator here, and has granted him access to the special collections on very short notice.  
“I hope you’re enjoying our city.”  
  
“I hope to,” Jared tells her. “I landed last night.” He’s shoehorning this trip in, loose ends back home whittling down his time here. Besides, this is just a layover: he’s got a train ticket tucked into his passport that will take him to a small village to the northwest of here. He leaves tomorrow.  
  
She leads him into the main room of the library, leaning in close and giving him an abridged history of the institution in whispered tones. This area has been designed in clean modern angles, stainless steel shelving and bright skylights overhead. A bank of at least a couple dozen computers line up in the center and three people sit there, buried behind monitors.  
  
"This wing was rebuilt after it was destroyed during the Allied bombing. Not to worry. We don't hold it against you," she jokes.  
  
A stern-looking guard stands at the next door they come to, and gives Katrin a small nod as he opens it for them. This section is older, a better match for the collections it houses. The hallway is narrower, more dimly lit, and dotted here and there with documents housed safely behind glass displays. Jared is thankful for the noticeable drop in temperature.  
  
They pass a preservation lab, archivists bent over a long counter visible beyond a large plate glass window, then come to another room, the door secured with lock that Katrin triggers with a key card that hangs around her neck.  
  
Jared whistles low. One step across the threshold makes him feel like he’s just traveled backward a couple hundred years. He’s not sure what he’d been expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t this. The room is large, with numerous shelves built into the walls, leaving space for a few windows and a skinny stairway that leads up to a second level balcony.  
  
Walking a slow circuit around the space, Jared takes in row upon row of leather bound spines, lined up like soldiers, the entire section of tightly furled scrolls tucked into square cubbyholes on the second floor and the antiquated map that takes up a huge portion of one wall, enclosed behind a sheet of archival glass. He could spend a year in this room alone and not even scratch the surface.  
  
“You’ll want to start here,” Katrin tells him, running a fingertip along a set of thick books, their titles lettered in gold leaf. “Marko. He’s the Bulgarian take on the Brothers Grimm.” She pulls down two of the five books and sets them on a table in the center of the room, then offers Jared a tiny smile. “At least you’re not looking for vampires. Everyone comes here looking for vampires. This is refreshing.”  
  


 

  
  
  
A few hours into research, Jared has more questions than answers jotted down in his notebook. He’d given up on the Marko in favor of some more obscure texts, but the translation is slow. Jared needs to put together a sort of roadmap and he has today to do it. Myths, legends, superstitions—they all come from somewhere and Jared needs to know he’s on the right track.  
  
The electronic buzz of the lock breaks Jared’s concentration. He leans back in his chair, spine cracking and his vision blurred.  
  
He’s expecting Katrin, but when the door opens a fraction a man slips through instead, closing it carefully behind him. He’s tall, broad in the shoulders, and as he turns to offer Jared a view of his profile, looks like one of those guys who should be modeling ridiculously expensive underwear or cologne in some ad on the back cover of _Vanity Fair_ magazine. His hair is clipped short and stands up in messy spikes, light brown but sun streaked a paler color at the tips. He turns and notices Jared, his full mouth opening in surprise and his green eyes going wide. A dusty old backpack dangles from his shoulder, made of worn, scarred leather that looks to have seen its fair share of miles.  
  
Jared stutters for a second, then manages to choke out a pathetic, “Hi?”  
  
“Hello?” the guy says, voice lilting upward with the same kind of inflection as Jared’s greeting. “You speak English?” he asks, his own accent neutral, middle-American through and through.  
  
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Jared says, and the newcomer grins at him with a small laugh. It’s a million dollar smile if Jared’s ever seen one. Open, friendly and infectious.  
  
“I didn’t mean to interrupt.” There’s a book in his hand and he holds it out toward Jared. “The late fees in this place are terrible,” he deadpans.  
  
“There’s nothing to interrupt,” Jared tells him, and it’s the truth. His last hour has been spent weeding through less dragon lore and more merchant accounts, tales of trades gone sour and one particularly fascinating but rather off-topic tale of a scandalous affair involving one of the Romani and some prominent family’s sixteen year old son. Remembering his manners, Jared rises partially from his chair with an extended hand. “Sorry,” he says. “Jared.”  
  
After a beat, the guy crosses the room and takes his hand, his grip strong and warm, and his gaze direct. “Jensen. Pleasure to meet you.”  
  
“Do you work here?” Jared asks, settling back into his chair.  
  
With a shake of his head, Jensen says, “Vacation. A sort of sabbatical.”  
  
His answer is vague and Jared pushes it. “Who spends their vacation in a library?” He’s thinking of the streets beyond these walls, the architecture and the people, bright sunshine and fresh air.  
  
“You do,” Jensen points out.  
  
“Not exactly. This is research.”  
  
Jensen leans back on his heels, mouth curving in a small twist. In the light from the window set up high in the wall, his eyes seem very, very bright. He takes in the spread of books, papers and crumbling scrolls on the desk in front of Jared, Jared's worn out drab green army jacket and the ancient t-shirt underneath. "So you're a dragon hunter?" Jensen asks, his curiosity genuine.  
  
With a small chuckle, Jared says, "I'm a folklorist. Anthropologist, actually. Kinda like Indiana Jones, minus the whip."  
  
Jensen nods, but his expression glazes over a little, like he isn’t quite getting the reference. Jared doesn’t mind. That sorta thing happens around him a lot.  
  
Jared catches himself staring and clears his throat. Looking for something to do with his hands, he plucks a book off of his stack at random. Without a title and slim, it appears to be a diary, with an intricate knotted design branded into the soft leather cover. The first page reveals a name: Teodor Penko, and a date: 1439. Jared pushes away the other texts on the table, clearing a space. His heart skips a beat three pages in. The script is small and faded and the text is Slavic, or at least appears to be at first glance. The dialect is one that Jared doesn’t know, but he’s able to pick up on some cognates and finds a few key words: travel, village, and most importantly, dragon.  
  
His heart skips another beat when a folded map slides out from between some pages near the end. With shaking fingers, he unfolds it, holding his breath as the old paper splits slightly along the creases where it’s been folded for hundreds of years.  
  
It’s hand drawn, and whoever drew this knew what they were doing. Jared compares it to the somewhat more modern equivalent on the wall. A few of the proportions are off, and the bright red houses marking villages have faded some with age, turning to the color of old blood. The snaking blue path of the river is true, however, where it stretches down from the mountain range and along the eastern borders of the towns scattered along its bank. There are marks on the map, made by someone other than it’s creator, Jared guesses, dotted lines that cross over the names of towns and clear through the carefully lettered ‘Thraciae’ bisecting the map. The thing is riddled with dates and hash marks, small stars in a code Jared can’t yet cipher.  
  
“Holy,” Jared whispers.  
  
He looks up to see Jensen peering carefully at him. Jensen tips his head backward, pointing with his chin. “Find something interesting?”  
  
“A jackpot,” Jared says.  
  
Jensen circles the table, stopping at Jared’s back and leaning over. He places a hand on Jared’s shoulder, the motion more familiar and intimate than Jared would typically prefer from a stranger. “They got most of it right,” Jensen says, eyebrows raised and his mouth set in an impressed frown.  
  
Jared places the journal on top of the map and points to a particularly unintelligible passage. It appears as if the author was in a rush, the writing in a tumbling scrawl, lines crossed out and words written over top of others. “Don’t suppose there’s a chance you can read archaic Turkish?”  
  
Jensen bends even lower, his chest coming in contact with Jared’s shoulder, so close that Jared feels the rise and fall of it. It has to be the thrill of discovery, the adrenaline rush that always hits him when he suspects he’s on the right trail. His head feels light when Jensen’s fingers inadvertently brush against his, and his thoughts suddenly fragment at the touch of Jensen’s warm breath against the side of his neck.  
  
“It’s not Turkish,” Jensen says absently, reaching across Jared to flip to a new page. “There are a lot of abbreviations as well. It’s idiomatic. A good chunk of it is regional slang.”  
  
It’s Jared’s turn to be impressed. Rearing back in order to get a good look at Jensen, he says, “Yeah?”  
  
Still distracted, Jensen explains. “I’ve studied a few languages.”  
  
“You’re a linguist?”  
  
“Not particularly. More like an enthusiast.” Jensen pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, chewing on it as he reads. “This man studied folklore. Like you.” He ticks down a few lines, then says, “Here. _‘Hired a guide and set out the morning of the 24th, following the trail laid out by…_ ’ something I don’t understand. Then there’s a detailed retelling of the weather. Everyone was an amateur meteorologist back then.”  
  
Jared really ought to move, make way for Jensen or perhaps offer the guy his chair, but he admits to himself that he likes the proximity and the smell of Jensen, clean, with a hint of something like incense. Sandalwood.  
  
Jensen continues, “Interesting. He’s traveling to Varna, where a woman claims to be carrying the child of a dragon.”  
  
“A popular myth in these parts,” Jared explains. “The child of a dragon is always male, said to have extraordinary strength and beauty, and the ability to vanquish evil.”  
  
“Let me guess,” Jensen says, “a hero who later slays the dragon.”  
  
“You guessed right.” Jared nods.  
  
“Nasty bit of luck there,” Jensen says.  
  
“It depends on whose side you’re on.”  
  
“I’m inclined to take the side of the mythological creature who is huge and magical and could quite potentially eat you,” Jensen notes.  
  
Jared shrugs. “Eh. I’m a sucker for the underdog.”  
  
Jensen picks the book up and carefully cradles it in his palm. “Do you mind?” he asks.  
  
“Be my guest, please.”  
  
Jensen continues to skim. “It was a bust,” he says. “It turned out that the woman was just covering for the fact that she’d had…uh… _relations_ with someone who was not her husband.” He flips through a few more pages and shakes his head. “Why do women always pull the short straw?”  
  
“Because most mythology was written down by men,” Jared says.  
  
Jensen reads from the text. “ _A male dragon is benevolent to humanity. A protector of agriculture. He can manifest as a serpent or a man. He’s locked in eternal battle with his sister, who is known to bring hardship and bad luck. She can appear as a whirlwind or a thunderstorm, and if she falls in love with a human, the man will succumb to a kind of wasting illness, grow pale and thin and eventually die._ ”  
  
“Must make family holidays a little awkward,” Jared jokes.  
  
Jensen nods in agreement. “They’re elemental. It goes on to say that the female dragon is aligned with fire and the male with water. Interesting.” He closes the journal. “If you give me a few days, I could probably translate this for you. Most of it, anyway.”  
  
Jared winces and leans heavily on his elbows. “Thank you. So much. I don’t have a few days, though.” He checks his watch. “I hardly have a few hours. My train leaves first thing in the morning.”  
  
It might be Jared’s imagination, some sort of perverse wishful thinking on his part, but it seems like Jensen’s face falls marginally, his lips pursing for a split second. “Going home?” Jensen asks.  
  
“Going to Gladsko, actually. Their planting festival starts tomorrow, and I have an appointment to meet with a local archaeologist.”  
  
Jensen hums, thoughtful. “When do you leave?”  
  
“Seven in the morning,” Jared tells him, wondering which direction Jensen’s going with this.  
  
“That might give me enough time,” Jensen muses. “Pack up. See the city. Go to Pri Miro for dinner and order the skara.” He pauses and holds up one finger. “Take my word for it, it’s the best in the world. Then go see the St. George Rotunda. It’s right in line with your interests, I believe, and quite a sight, the way they light it up at night. Shame they built that hotel around it. I’ll meet you at the station in the morning.”  
  
Jensen turns away from him, tucking Penko’s journal under his arm. He’s got a hand on the doorknob before Jared’s thoughts catch up. “Wait. You can’t just take that.”  
  
“I’ll return it, Jared. I always return my books.”  
  
“But it’s almost six hundred years old.”  
  
“Then I’ll be sure not to spill anything on it.”  
  
“But…you…huh…” Jared’s left open mouthed, blinking at the spot where Jensen just stood. “What the fuck is skara?”  
  
  


 

  
  
  
The sun has scarcely made an appearance when Jared climbs out of the taxi. The driver grunts as he struggles with Jared’s trunk, and Jared tips him what is probably an overly generous amount, holding out a handful of crumpled banknotes and coins.  
  
Jared’s not sure whether to be surprised or apprehensive when he spots Jensen sitting on a bench near the large main entrance, a suitcase between his feet. He’s dressed for travel: loose fitting jeans and a soft, dark red t-shirt and a sweatshirt tied around his waist. His breakfast is in a brown paper bag at his hip, small pastries covered in powdered sugar that he licks off of his fingers. It makes Jared think about doing it for him.  
  
“You showed,” Jared says by way of greeting.  
  
Jensen regards him seriously. He looks exhausted, pale, and the skin under his eyes thin and darkened. His shoulders slump in a way that they didn’t yesterday, and when he blinks it’s slow.  
  
“I always keep my promises. Speaking of which.” He stifles a jaw-cracking yawn with his fist and passes a sheaf of papers over to Jared. “Sorry for the gaps, but I think I got most of it.”  
  
“Thanks,” Jared says, swinging his backpack over his chest and depositing the papers safe and sound in the front pocket. “This should keep me company on the ride.”  
  
“So will I.” Jensen rises and reaches above his head in a huge stretch, his back arching and his shirt rucking up to display a polished brass belt buckle and an inch worth of skin above that, then the jut of Jensen’s hipbone as he twists a little. It looks soft and warm, and grabs a hold of Jared’s attention for the duration.  
  
It has to be the jetlag that’s made him mud-brained and wrong-footed. A beat or two too late, Jared says, “You’re coming?”  
  
Jensen nods. “You’re looking for dragons and I’m looking for something to do. Besides,” he continues, waggling the journal in Jared’s direction, “from what I’ve read in here, dragon hunting is definitely a two-man job, and not to be taken lightly.”  
  
Jared glares at him, suspicious. “Are you making fun of me?”  
  
“Not in the least.”  
  
“I can’t pay you.” This is a bad idea. It’s harebrained to the core, almost as impulsive as traveling halfway around the world on whim and a hunch. It’s the jetlag. It’s gotta be the jetlag.  
  
“Who said anything about money?” Jensen skirts the edges of a smile, trying to hold it back, and is very much aware that he’s on the verge of winning. “Come on,” he says, picking up his suitcase and taking Jared’s trunk by the handle. “We need to trade in your ticket.”  
  
“Whoa. Wait a minute,” Jared says, stubbornly planted in his spot on the walkway. “What?”  
  
Jensen throws a glance at him over his shoulder and keeps walking. “I did some research last night. You’re going to the wrong place.”  
  
“How do you figure?”  
  
“Gladsko has turned into a tourist trap. The festival is…diluted. Commercialized. We have to go to the source, and the source is in Madara, at least according to our friend Teodor. Every year they hold a celebration for their _zmey_ , inviting him down from the mountain to bless their crops. I wonder if he’ll show up this time.”  
  
The name of the town tickles something in Jared’s memory, indistinct and half formed. “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Jared says. Then he remembers. Ina had mentioned the place in passing. It’s where her grandmother was born.  
  
“I just did,” Jensen replies, holding the door open for him. “Are you ready? I think we’re ready.”  
  
Jensen’s dozing by the time the train makes its lurching departure from the station. The railcar is mostly empty and they have a group of four seats all to themselves. Jensen slouches, shoes kicked off, ankles crossed and feet propped on the opposite seat, bumping into Jared’s thigh as the train jostles them as it picks up speed. His head lolls against the window, using his sweatshirt as a pillow and his hands rest on his stomach, fingers netted together.  
  
Beyond the plate glass, the business district slides by, high rise office buildings casting shadows on ancient churches. Closer to the edge of the city stand several towering apartment buildings, the color of old concrete. Each one is standardized, just like its neighbor, built at a time when communism was still big. They’re checkerboarded with windows, most of the glass busted out.  
  
It starts gradually. Two girls in bright red dresses, the hems of them torn and tattered, stand on the graveled strip of land next to the tracks. Both of them hold their hands up in a motionless wave, twin serious expressions on their rounded faces. A few yards further there’s another, a young boy in a shirt too big for him, his longish hair tucked behind ears. He raises his hand, palm forward and tiny fingers curled slightly as the train moves past him.  
  
The hair on the back of Jared’s neck spikes up. He counts thirty children just like the first, and more coming, standing in clusters of three or four now, every one of them with black hair and dark eyes.  
  
Jensen rouses from his light sleep when Jared whispers, “Who are they?”  
  
He doesn’t answer, but rather slides to the edge of his seat, so close to the window that his nose almost touches it. There’s something soft, almost gentle in the tilt of his head and curve of his mouth. Jensen lays his palm flat on the glass, his fingers spread wide.  
  
Jared suddenly feels chilly, his skin oversensitive and he rubs at his upper arms to warm them.  
  
“It’s fine, Jared.” His breath puffs small clouds on the glass as he speaks. “They’re just saying goodbye.”  
  
  
  


 

  
  
  
  
“What am I supposed to do? Take a yak up the side of the mountain?” Jared mutters to himself.  
  
The man smiles mildly at him from across the counter, and holds his hands up in a way that tells Jared that he has only the cloudiest idea of what Jared is saying. It’s probably for the better, since Jared’s fairly sure he’s getting the verb tenses all mixed up and there’s a definite possibility that he just asked for a cat to be delivered to his bathtub.  
  
Jared scrubs his hands across his face, feeling dirty and gritty and dealing with that particular brand of vertigo that comes after a six-hour train ride. He rips his hat off, twists it between his hands in a display of impotent frustration and crams it back on his head. Goddamn, he wants a shower. Maybe something to eat and definitely a drink. Something strong. Ice optional.  
Few other people populate the building: the young man behind the ticket counter for one, now chatting with a bored-looking railway worker. A woman sits on a long, low wooden bench, a battered suitcase set beside her, a handkerchief tied around her head and arms crossed over her chest. Her weathered face is downturned and she’s napping, starting to lean every so often then righting herself.  
  
Jensen had slept nearly the entire ride, his chin resting on his chest and hands forming loose fists in his lap. Jared had tried to read, but he’d been too busy watching Jensen, the movement of his eyes behind closed lids, his lips occasionally shaping into unformed words.  
  
Once upon a time, Jared would have claimed to have a moderately level head. Sure, he falls prey to the occasional fanciful notion, and maybe holds tight to a few ideas that are a little left of center. Generally though, he likes to think of himself as reliable, steady, a both feet on the ground kinda guy. Not the sort of person to take a lot of risks, like allow himself to get blown several hundred miles off course by a man he just met yesterday.  
  
Past the platform, the rails stretch on in either direction through an expanse of green fields, bracketed by the foothills of the mountain range. The air feels thinner here. There’s a clean sort of pine scent to it, and Jared breathes in deep through his nose, holding it in for a second. He scans the tiny train depot and has no idea how he got here, but then Jensen steps off of the train, sleep mussed and still groggy, smiling a crooked little smile at him, and maybe Jared has a few ideas after all.  
  
Jared joins him. “I can’t be too sure,” he says, “but I think that a bus might pass through here every other Wednesday, and this is an off week.”  
  
Jensen cuffs him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’ll work out. Where’s your sense of adventure?”  
  
“It’s on the bus. I’m fairly confident that it’ll show up sometime next Wednesday.”  
  
“At least you have your luggage,” Jensen points out.  
  
“And my faithful squire,” Jared says, whacking Jensen’s shoulder in return.  
  
“I’m not the one tilting at windmills, here.”  
  
“Sure thing, Sancho.”  
  
Jensen scrubs a hand through his sloppy hair. It doesn’t help. “Enough with the _Don Quixote_ references.”  
  
“You started it,” Jared says.  
  
“I don’t think I did,” Jensen counters. He glances over Jared’s shoulder. “It looks like our concierge requires your attention, _Señor._ ”  
  
With a snap of his fingers, the man behind the counter waves over a somewhat short guy wearing something akin to a sailor’s cap, with callused hands and dirt lodged underneath his fingernails. A quick conversation ensues, fast and in an unfamiliar dialect. Jared struggles to keep up, manages to catch a word here and there, enough to know that a bargain is being struck.  
  
“Yenko will take you,” the man at the counter tells him.  
  
Yenko smiles and nods, and without another word takes Jared’s suitcase and steamer trunk in tow and heads for the exit.  
  
“Your carriage awaits.” Jensen smirks, following the man out the door.  
  
Their carriage is a beaten up truck, pocked with rust spots in all shapes and sizes. Yenko hefts their luggage into its bed, bracing it between farm tools and the remnants of some sort of small, broken apart engine.  
  
The trip is slow going. There’s barely space to breathe with the three of them jammed into the cab, Jensen wedged into the middle with both feet in the well on Jared’s side. An hour into the trip, Jared starts to not mind the switchbacks. The force of the turns make Jensen lean heavily into him, his body snugged up against Jared’s from ankle to shoulder. The teeth-rattling potholes take on a new light when Jensen grips Jared’s leg right above the knee, trying to steady himself.  
  
Eventually Jared squirms his arm loose and lays it across Jensen’s shoulders, offering an apologetic shrug. Jensen shrugs back, knocks their feet together and tucks in closer.  
  
Twilight comes early and sticks around for a while in this part of the world, the sun ducking behind the mountains, which cast a pervasive shadow over the small cluster of buildings they approach. It’s only late afternoon by Jared’s watch, but already the sky is fading to a dark, rosy color.  
  
The road they’re following intersects with another, and their driver slows to a stop, the engine coughing as he cuts it off. He says something to them, and Jared understands only every fifth word or so, but gets enough to know that they have to walk from here. The path leading up to the village has dwindled to little more than twin wheel ruts, ill-suited for the truck that brought them this far.  
  
Everybody shakes hands and exchanges stilted thank you’s, and Jensen tries to press him into taking a fistful of money.  
  
“Please,” Jensen says. “Allow us to repay you.”  
  
Yenko backs away toward the open door of his truck, shaking his head and smiling. He says something about home, and points down the road, where Jared can barely make out the shape of a distant grain silo and the rounded roof of a barn.  
  
“Stubborn,” Jensen hisses, and takes a few steps closer to the driver’s side door.  
  
Jared is floored when Jensen starts to speak to him in what sounds like flawless Bulgarian, his accent pitch perfect. Yenko is shocked as well and freezes, gaping for a moment before doubling over with gruff laughter, slapping a fist on the side of his truck and then again onto Jensen’s shoulder, as if they’re sharing some sort of inside joke. They talk for a few minutes longer, Yenko motioning his way through directions that will take them to an inn near the center of the village.  
  
“Anything else I need to know about you before we go any further?” Jared asks once the truck starts trundling down the road in the direction of the farm amidst a spray of gravel. He’s going for sarcasm, but his surprise makes him shoot wide of the mark.  
  
“I don’t snore, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Jensen says, and starts the walk toward the village. “At least, I don’t think I do.”  
  
“Jensen. C’mon. Stop.”  
  
Jensen spins, impatient, and drops his suitcase and backpack on the dirt trail. “I told you that I’ve studied a few languages. This just happens to be one of them. Besides, why would I be travelling alone out here if I didn’t speak the language?”  
  
It’s leak-free logic. “It didn’t stop me,” Jared says.  
  
“You’re not alone anymore,” Jensen points out.  
  
“Neither are you.”  
  
“And we’re both better off for it,” Jensen says. It’s the verbal equivalent of case closed. Jensen spins on his heel and leads them at a fast walk into town.  
  
The place defines bucolic, nestled in a valley, a river marking the boundary of the town to the west, and to the east a giant wall of land rises up to a dizzying height, spotted with trees that appear black in the diminishing light. Beyond the village, Jared can vaguely see an expanse of fields used for planting and grazing.  
  
Modernity hasn’t yet gotten a stranglehold here. On the surface, the people appear to live much as they had before the turn of the century, and even the century before that. It’s almost preternaturally quiet, the sound of their footsteps and the low rumble of the wheels of Jared’s trunk sounding intrusive to his ears as they travel through the narrow streets.  
  
The houses lining the paths are low and long, mostly one level homes interspersed with the occasional two story building, their upper levels extending past the first and supported by wooden struts. A few homes still bear thatched roofs.  
  
“You’d figure they’d all use shingles by now,” Jensen notes.  
  
Jared remembers reading something about that. “It’s an antiquated tax law,” he explains. “If a building has a roof, it’s considered a permanent structure, so when the tax assessors come, they take the roofs off so they can pay less, then put new ones on once they leave.”  
  
“Smart,” Jensen says.  
  
A footpath spills them out onto a square, obviously the central marketplace of the town, and Jared feels a jolt of surprise. Most of the tiny population is gathered here in the plaza, preparing for tomorrow’s spring festival. A group of young men constructing a canvas pavilion are the first to notice them, and they pause in their work. Silence ripples outward through the crowd as conversations cease and all eyes are turned toward the two of them. Mothers begin to hold tight to their children’s hands, uttering tight-lipped, whispered warnings and pulling them back as the youngsters twist and fight to get a closer look, and a small army of men eye them suspiciously.  
  
The town church, built in the Byzantine tradition, is the focal point of the square. Jared doesn’t need to see a schematic to know that the town was built around it. The building is enormous, placed to mirror, or perhaps mimic the shape of the mountain that serves as its backdrop. Its façade is about the length of a city block, but it extends far deeper than that, the back of the main structure butting up against the mountain. At first glance, Jared counts three domes, topped with small crosses that are almost invisible in the fading light. It looks to be the pale color of sand with rippling, dark red pottery shingles. The three doorways leading into the church are thrown open, spilling out a warm glow of yellow light onto the square.  
  
The throng of people split down the center, making way for a slowly moving figure.  
  
“Looks like we’ve caught the attention of the town holy man,” Jensen whispers.  
  
“Yeah, and every other soul within a fifty mile radius as well.”  
  
The Father is a tall man, even though some of his height has been lost to age. Most of his face is hidden behind a bright white beard that reaches down to his chest. He’s dressed entirely in black, his skullcap ringed with gold trim, and a weighty gold cross hangs low and rests against the thick black sash around his waist. He comes to a stop a few yards away and leans heavily on his cane, hands crossed over the handle of it, its wood twisted and knotty and its polish worn away from years of use.  
  
He looks at each of them in turn, and Jared starts to take a step toward him. Jensen stills him with a light touch to the elbow, and Jared’s not sure why.  
  
“American?” he asks, closing the distance between them, his cane clacking on cobblestones.  
  
Jared nods, and Jensen says, “We’re here for the party,” then grunts when Jared elbows him in the ribs.  
  
The priest spreads his arms wide. “It appears that you’ve arrived just in time,” he says, his English heavily accented but clear. “Welcome. I’m Father Ivan. It’s been a long time since we’ve had visitors.” His gaze slides from Jared and lands on Jensen. “Too long.”  
  
The people surrounding them take this as a cue and as a group go back to work, sparing only the occasional glance in their direction.  
  
“We might have a mutual acquaintance,” Jared ventures. “Do you know Ina Slokev?”  
  
His face splits into a large smile. “Ina?” he says, indicating a height of three feet or so. “Little Ina?”  
  
Jared laughs. “She’s not so little anymore. She’s a student at the university where I teach.”  
  
“I hope she’s earning good marks,” the Father says.  
  
“Definitely,” Jared assures him.  
  
“Her grandmother will be so proud when she hears of this.”  
  
“Her grandmother? Ina said her family moved away when she was still fairly young.”  
  
“Veta moved back two years ago. She said she was coming home to die.” He shakes his head. “I think there’s still some life in her yet. Come.”  
  
Ivan guides them around the edges of the square, and introduces them to Ina’s cousins, in-laws and various other rabbit’s relations, then the butcher, and the baker, the owner of the town’s one pub and finally a scattering of village elders. Jared shakes a myriad of hands and tries to commit names and faces to memory. His cheeks start to ache from a smile that feels frozen on his face. He drags his steamer trunk behind him over the uneven stonework, and hitches his backpack to a more comfortable position. Jensen plays the part of his shadow, uncharacteristically quiet.  
  
Veta sits at a long table shaded by a canopy. Before her is a pile of yarn, red and white and evenly cut into pieces. She’s weaving them into _martenitsas,_ tassels in the shape of people, creating tiny boys and girls with an efficiency that speaks of years of practice. Tomorrow they’ll be tied into clothing, hung from trees and given away as gifts.  
  
The first thing that Jared notices when she looks up from her work is the color of her eyes. One of them is dark, the brown clouded over with a cataract, but the other is a clear, bright blue. Jared recognizes her granddaughter in her smile.  
  
“Are all Americans as big as you?” Veta asks. “It’s not surprising that Ina has stayed there so long.” There’s barely contained laughter in Jensen’s voice as he translates.  
  
“No ma’am. I’m an exception to the rule.”  
  
“I bet they’re not all as handsome either,” she says, poking a finger in Jensen’s direction.  
  
“No, they’re not.” Jared speaks before he thinks it completely through, and shoots a quick glance in Jensen’s direction. Jensen returns the look, then rubs at the back of his neck, mouth curving in a small smile. Jared clears his throat and continues, “I’d love to sit down and talk with you for a while. Ina told me some wonderful things about you. Particularly about your wormwood tea.”  
  
That earns him a bark of laughter from Veta. “That girl,” she says fondly. “My world is a very small place. Hers has always been so much larger. Next time you see her, tell her to come home. Tell her that her grandmother misses her. Come see me tomorrow, before everything starts.”  
  
The town inn is a small place, more along the lines of a boarding house, tucked into a corner of the square. The family that owns it is gathered near the front door when they approach.  
  
Jared introduces himself. “Thank you so much for having us. I hope we’re not putting you out,” he says as he shakes hands with the mother and father, and musses the middle child’s hair. The oldest daughter hangs back, plucking at the cuffs of her sleeves and stealing small, sideways glances in their direction. Jared catches her with a smile and she looks down, shoulders hunched and trying to hide her blush.  
  
Their lodging for the duration is a pair of rooms on the second level, the ceiling vaulted with exposed rafters. It’s possible that one of their daughters usually sleeps in the room that Jared chooses, if the pale pink quilt on the bed and the sparse decorations are anything to go by. The single window offers a view of the neighbor’s roof and the forest beyond. Jared unlatches it and leans far past the sill, craning his neck and twisting to get a better view of the mountain.  
  
The window next to him swings open and Jensen pokes his head out. “Dinner’s in ten,” he says. “Anna’s making stew. I’m starving.”  
  
The evening has cooled down. Jared trades his travel clothes for something marginally less rumpled, shrugs on his jacket and joins Jensen on the front porch of the house, sinking onto a bench beside him. A line of men file past the house, farming tools angled on their shoulders and straw hats on their heads.  
  
“I’ve got to say that it’s the pitchforks that alarm me the most,” Jensen says.  
  
Anna appears a moment later, bearing two earthenware bowls on a round tray, along with a pitcher of water.  
  
“Forgive us,” she says. “You’re big news.”  
  
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Jared tells her. “I could say the same thing about you.”  
  
  


 

  
  
  
Jensen shakes Jared awake. It’s early, the predawn sun just starting to paint the sky in broad strokes of orange and pink.  
  
“Shit,” Jared croaks.  
  
“Not a morning person, then,” Jensen observes.  
  
“It’s been said.”  
  
The bed dips as Jensen sits next to him. He’s fresh-faced and bright-eyed, his hair still damp and there’s a tiny dot of blood from a shaving knick on the underside of his jaw.  
  
Jared pushes himself up on his elbows as Jensen hands him over a cup of coffee. The window is open, and the room smells like the bakery a few shops away. Last night, he’d fallen asleep to the ringing of hammers. Now he hears the faraway beat of percussion instruments and the sound of singing that echoes between the buildings, and groggily wonders if anyone in this place ever sleeps.  
  
“Anna says they’re setting up a bonfire on the edge of town,” Jensen tells him. “We should go help. Maybe make some friends.”  
  
Jared grunts into his mug, wondering if there’s a way to gently kick Jensen out of his room for another couple of hours.  
  
“What’s it called when you go out and embed yourself with the people that you’re studying?” Jensen asks.  
  
“Participant observation.”  
  
“That’s it,” Jensen says, snapping his fingers. “We should go participate. And observe.”  
  
“Oh, god, you’re right. I hate that you’re right.”  
  
A good-sized crowd has already assembled in the square by the time they make it outside.  
The square has been transformed overnight. Long tables line the periphery, bowing under the weight of enough food to feed a population twice the size of the town. Swooping garlands of greenery and flowers hang on every building, and more blossoms float in the central fountain. A low stage has been built in a far corner, and a group of musicians are tuning their instruments.  
  
The women have traded their usual clothes for the traditional dress of the region: billowing shirts with embroidered sleeves under black dresses, red aprons tied around their waists and white handkerchiefs covering their heads.  
  
One person in particular grabs Jared’s attention. She’s young—no older than sixteen—and is seated in an enormous, throne-like chair in front of the church. The jacket she wears reaches her knees, the material glinting with metallic thread in the early light. She drips with gold jewelry: a heavy necklace, a crown, so many bangle bracelets that lifting her arms must be difficult. Her hair is intricately braided and woven with tiny flowers. As Jared looks on, a couple approaches her and ties _martenitsas_ on the back of her chair, each one kissing her cheek in turn.  
  
“That can’t be comfortable. I’ll be back,” Jensen says, and jogs over to her. He pauses to pluck a flower from one of the bouquets scattered around the area before crouching down at her feet.  
  
It’s sappy and ridiculous, but Jared feels his heart skip a beat when Jensen tucks the flower behind her ear. Searching for a distraction, Jared spots Father Ivan, who has taken up residence at one of the tables and is picking at a plate of fruit. “Who’s that?” Jared asks him.  
  
“She’s the dragon’s bride,” he says around a mouthful.  
  
The answer is so matter-of-fact that it takes Jared a full five seconds to catch up. “Wait. She’s not a sacrifice, is she?”  
  
Ivan scoffs. “No. She’s a symbol. It’s been years since anyone sacrificed a virgin around here.”  
  
“What does the church have to say about this, anyhow?” Jared says.  
  
“These people are good people, Professor. Devout. You’re not from here, so it’s hard to understand.” Ivan pushes his plate away and rests against the back of his chair. “Tell me. How would you define faith?”  
  
Jared takes his time. He could probably rattle off a passable textbook definition, but he doesn’t think that’s what the priest wants.  
  
After a stretched out silence, Ivan finally lets him off the hook. “It’s fine if you can’t. I’m eighty years old. For most of those years I’ve been trying to do it, and I still don’t think I have it right. The closest I’ve come is this: faith is a belief in something, even in the face of no tangible proof. These people have faith, and then they have the dragon.”  
  
“What are you saying?” Jared asks.  
  
“I’m saying that there are some things that are older than the church. I’m saying that there are things the church doesn’t need to know about. Now go. Build us a big bonfire, young man. And when you see Veta, tell her I want to see her dance. She’ll know what I mean.”  
  


 

  
  
  
Veta welcomes Jared into her home, her fingers wrapped around his elbow in a grip that’s gnarled but strong. Gesturing toward a small table in the kitchen, she sets about working at the wooden counter that takes up one wall of the room, and places a loaf of dark, crusty bread in front of him along with some sort of crumbled, blue-veined cheese. She pours him a cup of tea, and lobs a generous dollop of honey into it.  
  
Jared’s sweaty from chopping wood for the fire, thirsty, and his stomach gurgles at the sight of food. He curls his fingers around the mug with a grateful smile and sputters on the first sip. The stuff is stronger than jet fuel.  
  
“Thank you for taking the time to talk with me,” he begins, speaking slowly. The language barrier is growing thinner. Jared has always been a quick study, and a several hours spent this morning with the young men of the village, their patience and their curiosity has helped to get Jared up to speed on the twists and turns of their dialect.  
  
The woman waves it away. Thin wisps of white hair have fallen out of the loose knot at the nape of her neck to frame her face, making the leathery color of her skin appear even darker.  
  
“I hear you’re chasing fairy tales,” she mutters and Jared’s shoulders drop. She must see it, because she shrugs and straightens her vest on her shoulders, leans across the table and pats his hand in encouragement. “Just because they’re fairy tales, doesn’t mean they’re not true.”  
  
Jared feels a renewed sort of hope. The woman takes a bite of bread and chews it slowly. Damn, but she knows how to work a crowd, even if it’s just an audience of one.  
  
Wiping at the corners of her mouth in a way that was almost dainty, she continues. “Why do you think we tell these stories to our children?”  
  
Jared’s answer is one given by rote. “They’re cautionary tales. Listen to your parents. Don’t go out in the woods by yourself. Don’t talk to strangers.”  
  
She gives a throaty bark of laughter at that. “No such thing as strangers here, my dear.” Turning serious a moment later, she says, “We tell our children these things because there’s enough truth in those stories to make it real. We tell the children these things because they believe it.”  
  
“Until they’re given reason not to,” Jared finishes for her, “or grow up.”  
  
“Some of us just choose to never grow up. Like you.”  
  
“Like me,” Jared agrees and does one better. “And like you.”  
  
“There you have it. You’re smart. I like you.”  
  
“The feeling’s mutual,” Jared says.  
  
“You’re not here to flirt with an old woman. You want to know about the dragon.” She rubs a thumb on the handle of her spoon and Jared is reminded so strongly of her granddaughter that it’s disorienting.  
  
“My family is an old one,” she begins, and her words have a measured cadence to them, like she’s about to launch into a well-known song or maybe an epic poem. “My great-great-grandfather saved a lord’s daughter from drowning in a river, and this is how he was repaid.” She sweeps her hand in an all-encompassing gesture, indicating not only the village but the surrounding countryside as well. “This land here was horrible,” Veta goes on, “nothing would grow, the wells gave up poisoned water, and wild animals attacked the livestock. Everyone said it was cursed.”  
  
Jared’s momentarily transported backward to his junior year in undergrad, when he’d spent a month with a group of Maya on the Yucatan Peninsula. The nights spent in the elder tribesman’s home and how he would gather the younger generations together to tell them the Maya creation myth of mud and blood. Like him, Veta is a storyteller, a keeper of her family lore. For her to pass it on to him is a great honor.  
  
“The villagers were hungry. Sick. Half of them died the first winter they were here. One day, my great-great-grandfather was hunting in the woods and came across a man buried in the snow. He was nearly dead, frozen blue, his clothes were torn and he looked like he’d been mauled by some terrible beast. My family took him in and tended his wounds, fed him and gave him warm clothes to wear. He stayed with them for the rest of the winter. One day, near the beginning of spring, he simply disappeared. Poof. Gone. The only trace of him was a beautiful golden necklace he left on the pillow where he’d slept.”  
  
“It was the dragon,” Jared says.  
  
“You decide. The water in the wells cleared. This valley has not seen a snowstorm since. Our herds are safe from predators. Mostly, anyway. My great-great-grandfather was a good man. I think he struck a bargain.”  
  
“Ina also said something about the oldest families having dragon’s blood. Can you tell me anything about that?”  
  
“Nothing certain,” Veta says. “But I can tell you that my great-grandfather looked nothing like his father. Did you see the dragon’s bride this morning?”  
  
Jared nods.  
  
“Did you see the shackle around her ankle? The one that ties her to the chair?”  
  
“No I didn’t,” Jared admits. The slice of bread he’d been chewing has turned to sawdust in his mouth. He’s badly shaken.  
  
“It’s gold-plated. It has rubies embedded in it.”  
  
“But it’s still a chain,” Jared says.  
  
“You understand. Tonight they’ll take her out to the field and leave her there. If she’s lucky, she’ll still be chained to the chair in the morning.”  
  
“If she’s not lucky?”  
  
“The _zmey_ will take her. Some traditions are old. Some we hold on to and some we forget. Some we _should_ forget.”  
  
“The bride. She’s part of the bargain, then?”  
  
“Call it a rite of passage, call it whatever you want. We send a young man or a young woman out to the fields every year and mostly they come back. Sometimes they don’t. People say that they run away, but where would they run?”  
  
“To the Roma?” Jared suggests. “There are still tribes of travelers in the mountains, right?”  
  
“They keep to themselves, mainly. Why would they want one of us?”  
  
“You could ask the same thing about the dragon,” Jared points out.  
  
“I think it gets lonely.” She makes an impatient noise. “Let me ask you, is it magic? Is it magic that some years the crops grow higher than the sky and others the seeds won’t sprout from the ground? Some people call it science. Science,” she spits the word out like it’s a curse, rolling her eyes and wrinkling her nose. “Forgive me. I’m old. Set in my ways. I’ll tell you the truth of it, and you believe it or you don’t. There’s something that protects this village, and has protected this place for longer than any of us still alive can remember, and our memory is very, very long. Something that is more powerful than anything we’ve ever seen.”  
  
She stares off into the middle distance for a moment, and Jared catches himself scooting toward the edge of his seat, holding his breath. This is what he came for. This exactly. He’d been taking notes, but now realizes that his pen has stilled, gripped tightly and making his hand ache, his fingertips white and bloodless.  
  
“My great-grandmother was a beautiful woman. Kind and gentle. Everyone loved her. She was young then, younger than you. There was a horrible drought, nothing would grow, and the whole village was worried that they’d not make it through the cold season. So she went into the woods, searching for the place where the stranger had been found years before, trying to draw the dragon out of his cave where he holds back the rain. She didn’t come back.”  
  
“Did they search for her?” Jared says.  
  
“Not very hard, if you ask me. The village got what it needed. The rains came. That’s what mattered to them. It changed my grandfather, to lose his mother at such an early age. He was never the same. I’ll never forget him on his deathbed. He kept calling out to her, and talking to her as if she was sitting right next to him. Maybe she was. We’ll never know. There was talk, though, from people who remembered her face. Old men who used to say that they saw her, when they were hunting in the woods or walking through the village at night. They all said that she’d not aged a day. We all thought they were crazy. This is crazy talk, no? Too much to drink.” She chuckles before continuing. “She had eyes like mine. Like Ina’s,” she says quietly, as if sharing a treasured secret. “I don’t think that they were all that crazy.”  
  
The woman blinks toward the distant mountain range, visible through the open door, her expression thoughtful and serene. “I was seventeen when I went up into the mountains. I wanted to see it for myself. I spent the night in a cave up there. You should go see it. I’d take you, but—“ she cuts off, waving a hand in the direction of a cane that rests propped against the door. “I saw the strangest things that night.”  
  
“What happened?” Jared asked, completely enrapt.  
  
“I met my great-grandmother. More than a hundred years had passed since she disappeared, but she hadn’t aged a day. Later, my mother told me I dreamed it. I don’t think it was a dream.” With a small shake of her head, she scrapes her chair backward along the uneven plank floor and rises, clutching at her back as she straightens. Her smile is small, and the look on her face is a bit wistful. “Here, help an old lady to the party.” Veta straightens her shirts and tucks her hair beneath a handkerchief.  
  
Jared takes her hand and feels a dry, bone on bone crunch beneath her thin skin. “It would be an honor.”  


 

  


  
  
The large brass door opens on silent hinges and Jared slips quietly into the church, his backpack clutched in one hand. A trapezoid of light hits the gleaming wooden floor, Jared’s shadow tall and skinny in the middle of it. The interior is murky and cavernous, smells of candle wax, wood polish and the ghost of incense lingering from Sunday Mass. A young man stands in front of a bank of votives, scattered candles bathing his face in a ruddy, shifting glow. Another man sits alone in one of the many pews, near the center aisle with his head bowed and shoulders drawn forward.  
  
Jared squints, blinks away the effects of the bright sunlight outside and glances up at the ceiling, adorned with fading, crumbling frescoes. A one-dimensional Mother Mary stares down at him, lacking expression, and a similarly blank-faced Jesus sits in her lap, body the size of a child but bearing the proportions of a fully-grown man.  
  
A flicker of movement draws Jared’s attention and he catches sight of someone in the far corner of the cathedral exiting through a plain wooden door, stained a color so dark that it appears nearly black.  
  
“Dr. Padalecki.” The whispered voice shocks Jared almost clear out of his skin and he gasps and spins to find the Father looking up at him.  
  
“I thought you’d come here eventually,” he says.  
  
“I was hoping to borrow a map of the mountain.”  
  
The father offers a knowing nod. “Bored with our little town already, I see.”  
  
“Not at all,” Jared says.  
  
He draws Jared to a side door, the steady clack of his cane creating a dull thump that reverberates throughout the room. Jared decides that the thing is mostly for show as he follows the priest along an open breezeway at a quick pace.  
  
He leads them to another building, and into what is obviously a classroom. “The church complex is a catch-all,” the Father explains. “Medical clinic, school, library. It houses the town records, such as they are.” An adjoining door opens into a tiny room, hardly larger than a broom closet. Ivan rummages along a shelf. “Here it is,” he says, unfolding a map shaded in greens and browns.  
  
Jared holds it up. He’s never been the backwoods camping type, and right now he might as well be trying to read cuneiform. In fact, he’d probably be better off if it was actually written in cuneiform.  
  
From a pocket hidden in his dark robes, Father Ivan produces a silver coin, a square hole punched through the center and a red string tied in a loop through it. “I must ask a favor of you. When you get to where you’re going, would you leave this for him? You’ll know the right place.”  
  
Turning the coin over in his palm, Jared says, “Is this another one of those things that the church doesn’t need to know about?”  
  


 

  
  
Jared sits on the edge of the fountain, his notebook resting on his knee. A shadow falls across the page and he looks up to see Jensen passing half a sandwich over to him, sharp, pale-colored cheese on dark bread, slathered with some sort of olive spread. Jared takes a bite and moans. It might just be the best thing he’s ever put in his mouth.  
  
“How’d it go?” Jensen asks.  
  
“I think I’m in love,” Jared replies around another mouthful.  
  
“With the sandwich or with Veta?”  
  
“Both.”

  
Jensen snatches the notebook from Jared’s lap. When Jared makes a grab for it, he shoves it into his backpack. “No studying today. Just pay attention.”  
  
“But I don’t want to forget anything,” Jared protests.  
  
“You’ll remember,” Jensen says. “And if you don’t, I’ll remember for you.”  
  
The festival is in full swing. Music is playing, bagpipes and drums, and a snaking line of dancers work their way through the crowd with their arms linked together. Wreathes of herbs hang around their necks.  
  
“They’re dancing the horo,” Jared bends in close to Jensen in order to be heard over the song. “In Bulgarian folklore, the dragon will get too confused by the dance and won’t be able to take any of the villagers.”  
  
“I suppose that’s why they’re staying away from the bride,” Jensen says. “Did Veta tell you that?”  
  
Jared shakes his head. “I read it somewhere. She did tell me about a cave. Up there.” Jared points to the mountain range hulking over the town. “Where the dragon keeps the rain and the wind trapped. I’ve gotta go see it.”  
  
“Obviously you do,” Jensen says slowly. “Do you know where it is?”  
  
“Vaguely.”  
  
“That’s a start.”  
  
Jared takes the map from his pocket and points to a spot carefully lettered in Cyrillic. “How long do you think it’ll take?”  
  
Jensen considers it for a moment, rolling his bottom lip between his thumb and his first finger. “A day there and a day back, probably. Depends on your stamina. You’ve got long legs.”  
  
“Stamina.” Jared snorts. “Wonder how much I’ll have to pay to bribe a guide to take us up there.”  
  
“I know a man.” Jensen shrugs. “Rumor says he works fairly cheap.”  
  
“Rumor also says he’s bossy as hell.” Jared rolls his eyes. “So you think you could find your way around?”  
  
“Vaguely. Hopefully,” Jensen says. “I _do_ know how to read a map, you know.”  
  
Before he can respond, the line of dancers draws close to them and pulls Jared into their ranks. There’s no choice but to stumble along, trying to learn the steps and not trip over his own feet or those of his neighbors. He gets in one backward glance and sees Jensen laughing behind his hand and then he’s swept up, the sound of singing voices loud in his ears.  
  


 

  


  
  
  
They light the bonfire at sunset. Jared follows a procession of men through the winding walkways that lead to the outskirts of town as they carry the bride into the field. The girl shifts in her seat, jostled left and right, gripping the arms of the chair so tightly that it has to hurt.  
  
Offerings have been left on doorsteps throughout the village, food and wine, idols and small trinkets. More have been left in the fields: baskets of bread and sweet rolls, dripping with syrup and honey.  
  
A vanguard of children surrounds Jared as he walks, chattering happily. They stick flowers into the buttonholes of his shirt and in his pockets. One bold teenage girl approaches him and places a garland of flowers on his head, reaching up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. Not sure of the custom, Jared returns the kiss and she dashes away, her smile hidden behind her hand.  
  
Jared had thought that the whole population had turned out in the square earlier in the day, but he’d been wrong. The crowd milling around the bonfire is half again as large and more than twice as loud, full of raucous laughter, shouts and snatches of songs. He hangs back, his feet sinking into the soft, damp dirt and scans the familiar and unfamiliar faces.  
  
A procession of men dressed in white shirts, trailing red sashes and loose black pants gathers around the fire, a motley collection of percussion instruments in hand. They begin to circle it with measured steps, playing a rhythm no faster than a funeral dirge to start. The air grows denser, a strange sort of charge taking hold as the men quicken the tempo and start to move faster. Someone throws a strip of firecrackers into the flames and sparks fly up and out, voices rising above the music in loud whoops.  
  
Jared feels a tickle on the back of his neck and turns to see Jensen emerging from the murky darkness, the light from the bonfire painting his face a vital red color. His fingers are looped through the small handle of a ceramic jug, his feet are curiously bare and the cuffs of his jeans are splattered with dark mud.  
  
“There you are,” Jared says as he comes to a stop beside him, close enough that their elbows brush when Jensen takes a sip from the bottle.  
  
Jensen licks his lips, leaving them shiny and wet. “I’ve been busy begging, borrowing and stealing. I think I’ve got everything we need. And before you ask, no, I’m not lugging your trunk up the side of the mountain.”  
  
“What if I need one of my books?”  
  
Jensen gives him a look so sharp it could cut glass, but doesn’t answer. Instead he passes the jug over. The stuff burns on the way down, then settles into a warm slosh in Jared’s stomach, fruity and sweet.  
  
Jared still wears the garland of flowers in his hair, ribbons trailing over his shoulder. Jensen curls one around his first finger, and the smile he gives Jared is downright flirty. “Fetching,” he says, then produces a red and white _martenitsa_ , which he slips into Jared’s hand, curling Jared’s fingers around it. “For good luck.”  
  
The music stops, drawing Jared’s attention toward the group of people once more. Three older women take a prominent place before the fire, sisters by the look of them, dressed entirely in white. They start to sing in a minor harmony, ghostly and nearly discordant to Jared’s western ears.  
  
Jared’s flesh breaks out in goosebumps, and the scene before him begins to take on a surreal bend, like he’s stepped into a dream. In unison, the three women raise their arms above their heads and the rest of the crowd follows suit a beat later, swaying back and forth. Silhouetted against the shifting light of the fire, they seem like marionettes, their movements stilted and wooden. A sensation starts deep in Jared’s core, heavy, like someone has placed an anchor in his chest and is starting a steady, inexorable pull.  
  
He’s dizzy, more lightheaded than the couple of swallows from Jensen’s bottle can account for, and his vision has gone hazy around the edges, as if he’s looking through a grimy window. Something builds, some sort of force crackling in the air. It clings to Jared, hugging his body, and Jared thinks that he might be able to see it, if he could tilt his head at just the right angle and squint just so. He stares into the fire and form begins to appear, twisting and indistinct. The bottle falls from his hand and he takes one step toward the flames. His pulse hammers in his ears. He needs a better look.  
  
“This isn’t for you,” Jensen says, and it doesn’t make sense. He sounds very far away, somewhere on the other side of the universe.  
  
Jared ignores him and takes another dragging step.  
  
“Jared,” Jensen tries again, a little closer this time, his voice steely and insistent. “Look at me.” He grabs Jared’s upper arm but Jared pulls away. Jensen blocks him then, reaches up to palm Jared’s jaw and steer Jared’s face toward him, his palm a shock of warmth on Jared’s skin. His hand is shaking, tiny tremors and Jared’s not too sure what to think of that. There’s barely any space between them; they’re so close that they might as well be sharing the same small stamp of land.  
  
The effect is grounding. Jared does look at him then, releasing a breath that sounds like a sigh. Jensen’s lips are parted and his eyes are wide with concern, firelight catching in them and turning them a brilliant green. Beautiful. Jared’s never seen anything quite like it. He mirrors Jensen and touches his face, swiping his thumb against Jensen’s cheekbone, catching a thrill when Jensen leans into it a little.  
  
Jensen still smells like sandalwood, now with smoke from the fire mixed in and Jared can taste his breath, sweet with liquor. Jared wants to kiss him. He’s right there, his face turned up and mouth so soft. All Jared has to do is push forward, just a fraction. This isn’t the first time he’s thought about it. This isn’t even the tenth.  
  
“It’s not for you,” Jensen says a final time.  
  
It’s spell breaking. Jared takes an unsteady backward step, blinking and shaking his head. “Damn,” he says, shoving his hair away from his face. Only then do the words of the song begin to register. “They were trying to call down the dragon.”  
  
“I know,” Jensen says, still watching Jared closely.  
  
Jared stammers. “I—uh. I saw something? Someone? It was in the fire.”  
  
“It’s part of your nature. You can hardly be blamed. People are inclined to see faces in everything. Clouds, woodgrain, fire. The man in the moon.”  
  
Jared sinks to the ground, cross-legged. “Fuck,” he says, slouching. “For a minute there…” he trails off, at a loss, and tries again. “For a minute there, I kinda. Lost myself.”  
  
Jensen finds his own spot right next to Jared, his knuckles bumping Jared’s knee. It’s as if he needs to keep touching him. Jared doesn’t mind it, not at all. He laughs, but there’s not a lick of humor in it. “It was a bit longer than a minute.”  
  
Startled, Jared looks toward the fire. It’s burned down quite a bit, a thick layer of glowing embers have replaced the flames, growing bright then dimming, like a pulse. “Holy,” Jared croaks.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Jensen says. “You froze. It wasn’t weird at first, and then it was, you know? I’m sorry,” he says again. “I should have paid closer attention to you.”  
  
“It’s not your fault,” Jared argues. Disagreeing with Jensen is a lot easier than wrapping his head around what has happened. He’ll save that particular puzzle for later.  
  
“I promised to look after you,” Jensen tells him.  
  
“No you didn’t,” Jared scoffs.  
  
“I didn’t promise _you_.”  
  
The jug had fallen on its side, most of its contents soaked into the dirt. Jared rights the bottle and wipes its mouth on his sleeve before starting to take a sip.  
  
“That might not help,” Jensen warns.  
  
“Don’t think it’ll hurt.” Jared takes a large gulp, hisses on the swallow and passes the bottle over to Jensen.  
  
“Eh. You’re probably right.”  
  
They polish the what’s left of the bottle off in silence. People with metal rakes tend to the bonfire, spreading the coals out into a large circle. The bagpipes start up again and Veta comes forth with Ivan by her side. Her back is straight, chin tipped up and her walk is steady. Years have melted away from her posture since this morning’s interview. She hugs a gilded frame against her chest, the metal shining in the glow of the coals. With sweeping movements, she swings the picture frame low toward the embers and Jared gets a glimpse of the image of a figure dressed in long robes before she spins gracefully away.  
  
At first, Jared thinks she’s going to stay to the periphery of the fire, and lunges to his feet as she calmly takes a step onto the embers, sparks swirling around her ankles. She bends at the waist and spins, holding the painting at an angle to the circle of fire.  
  
“Who is it in the painting?” Jared asks.  
  
“I saw it as they were carrying it here,” Jensen says. “It’s St. George.”  
  
“The dragon slayer,” Jared notes. “It’s a warning.”  
  
Veta drops the painting into the fire and begins to dance around it as it’s consumed, her feet moving in intricate steps that would be difficult for a person half her age.  
  
“No,” Jensen disagrees, “More like a sacrifice. Let’s go.”  
  
Jared’s still somewhat shaky, weaving a little on the walk through the field. Jensen notices and wraps an arm around his waist to steady him. “I have one more errand,” he says, and steers them further into the field, beyond earshot of the celebration.  
  
The bride is alone, still bound to her chair, it’s blocky frame nearly invisible behind a pile of offerings of food and wine. Jared hangs back while Jensen checks on her, but his words carry in the clear night air.  
  
“Don’t worry. You’re safe,” Jensen says to her. “The dragon won’t come for you.” He takes a cloth-covered bundle and unwraps it as he makes his way back to Jared, and offers Jared a sweet roll covered in honey. “Apparently they think that the dragon has a sweet tooth.”  


 

  
Jared stumbles out of bed, head pounding and one foot completely asleep. In the blinding darkness, he gropes past furniture toward the door, the floorboard groaning beneath his feet. Reaching for the doorknob, he trips over something warm and soft, tipping forward until his shoulder comes in contact with the rough wood of the door with a hollow thunk.  
  
“The fuck,” he mumbles as the form on the floor groans. “Jensen? Jesus.”  
  
Jensen unravels himself from Jared’s legs, bumps into him three times before he makes it to his feet and rests his forehead on Jared’s bare shoulder, his short hair scuffing along Jared’s skin. “Yes,” Jensen says. “And ouch.”  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
“Getting woken up in a very unfortunate manner.”  
  
“What are you doing on the floor?” Jared clarifies.  
  
“I was trying to sleep,” Jensen explains. “It didn’t work out the way I planned.” Jensen brushes past him, there’s the scrape of a match as he lights a candle. Jensen looks like he’s gone a few rounds with a semi, hair messy, face blotchy, and he’s still wearing the clothes he had on last night, now rumpled and stained. “Meet me at the crossroad on the way to the pasture,” he says as he slips through the door. “I want to check on the girl. Bring breakfast. Something sweet.”  
  


 

  
  
The morning has dawned warm, just a pale line of purple casting the hills in dark relief against the sky. A fog has skidded down from the mountains and the air is humid, smells like water and pine trees and mutes the sound of Jared’s footsteps on the cobbled pathways. The town is still asleep, and the storefronts are all dark except for the bakery. Jared ducks in through the door.  
  
If the man behind the counter is surprised to have a customer so early, he doesn’t let on. He’s a short fellow, balding, a white apron tied around his waist and flour ground into the cracks in his knuckles. Jared takes a moment to pour over the rows and rows of pastries and baked goods. The room is warm, doubtless heated by the oven that takes up one wall of the place, arched and blackened bricks at its rounded opening. A sample tray of pastries sits on the counter and Jared plucks one up, a rounded thing that looks a little like a doughnut hole doused in sugar glaze, sticky. It’s perfection, carries a hint of almonds and sweetness explodes on his tongue. He buys two dozen, as well as a dark loaf of bread spotted with black olives, and makes for the edge of town, breakfast in a white paper bag tucked the crook of his elbow and his backpack slung loosely over one shoulder.  
  
He’s about to their meeting spot by the time the sugar rush hits, a zinging tickle at the back of his skull. Jensen’s already there, an indistinct figure in the distance and Jared feels a shock of nervous energy. His memories are a little hazy, but one thing is clear: he almost kissed Jensen last night, and Jensen almost let him.  
  
Jensen sits on a rickety post gate that marks the border of a farmer’s land, livestock scattered across the field and largely ignoring them. His gear is stowed against the fence post, wooden and weather-washed smooth and pale. A canteen, a self-contained mess kit made out of dinged up aluminum, and a large, unfamiliar backpack, it looks like Jensen is planning to spend a week in the wilderness and not a couple of days.  
  
“A regulation boy scout,” Jared notes, shuffling through the supplies.  
  
“Never hurts.” Jensen jumps down from his seat. A floppy olive green hat hides most of his face in shadow, and his legs poke out from a pair of cut off cargo shorts. His boots are old, the leather uppers worn in and looking soft as butter, but the soles of them seems to have been replaced recently.  
  
Jared shuffles through their gear, loops a canteen through the strap on his backpack and knows immediately that the thump of the thing against his waist is going to get very old, very quickly.  
  
Jensen straightens his hat and squares his shoulders. “You ready?” He starts down the path at a loping walk, leaving Jared to jog a few steps to catch up.  
  
  
  
  
  


 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Unfortunate.” Jensen pauses in the center of the trail.  
  
They’ve just now broken free of the tree line and the day, which had started off with the promise of mild temperatures and morning sunshine, has become gloomy and cloud covered, the wind starting to pick up and lash at the trees. The air smells like damp earth and rain.  
  
Jared had been intent on following in Jensen’s footprints, searching the bed of the forest and keeping watch for ankle twisting roots. The ground is springy with moss, easy on the soles of his feet, but covers hidden rocks lodged in the dirt, dangerously slippery. He does look, now, and feels claws of disappointment sink into his stomach. The path they’d been following is distinct along the rock outcropping, barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side. The ledge drops off steeply to their left, a dizzying decline that crashes into the valley far below. Ahead of them, the way is blocked; large boulders have tumbled down, leaving a cleft in the stony face of the mountain.  
  
Jensen drops his pack and approaches the rock fall cautiously, investigating the gap. Loose pebbles scatter as he climbs atop one boulder, very light on his feet and agile, and Jared’s nerves trigger. The wind has picked up, ripping at Jensen’s clothes and pushing Jared’s hair in his face. It steals the breath from his lungs. One vicious gust pushes Jared sideways and he staggers, sees Jensen doing the same above of him. He tries to holler a warning, but the wind whips his voice outside of Jensen’s earshot.  
  
Jensen leaps down from the boulder and approaches him at a loping, easy trot. “I can’t see the other edge of the rockslide,” Jensen tells him, wiping his gritty hands on the front of his pants. “The trail’s gone for the next twenty yards at least, but then it curves around, goes out of sight.” He shrugs. “We could chance it, but with the wind the way it is…” he doesn’t finish his sentence, but rather motions toward the trail and lets the thought finish itself.  
  
Jared’s knees pop as he crouches beside Jensen, the bedrock of the cliff jabbing at his spine. Right now, he’d kill for a hot shower and a soft bed, a pot of warm coffee and Jensen to share it with.  
  
Diving into a pocket in his cargo shorts, Jensen spreads the map out between them. It’s upside down from his vantage point, but that doesn’t matter. He might as well be reading a mirror image, backward map of the moon for all the sense it makes to him.  
  
“We’re right here,” Jensen says, pointing to a spot on the map, intersecting a snaking line drawn in black ink. At some point, Jensen had done his research. Jared’s impressed. Jensen traces the line as it makes a switchback and then a sharp turn toward the north. “This is where we’re going. As the crow flies, it isn’t far.”  
  
The rock face stings Jared’s hand when he slaps it. “But we can’t blast through the mountain,” he says.  
  
“Would if we could,” Jensen states, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the peak. It’s impossible, lost to low hanging clouds. His dark grey shirt clings to his back, a line of sweat-darkened fabric running down his spine. The first drops of rain start to fall. “We don’t want to risk a climb in the rain.” With a pointed look at the worn soles on the bottom of Jared’s boots, he continues, “You’re not wearing the right kind of shoes, anyway.”  
  
It’s not a dig. Jared doesn’t really take it as one anyway. Truth is truth. “What are our other options?”  
  
“Double back,” Jensen says. “Take the loss. It took us two hours to get from here to here,” Jensen says, indicating a distance between his thumb and forefinger. “Maybe it’ll take a little less to get back—it’s downhill,” he explains. “It’ll add a day to the trip, at least.”  
  
Jared can feel the pressure of time closing in around him. This venture was originally supposed to be a couple of days long—he had been so sure that a dead end would be staring him square in the eye when he ambled into town and has never been so off the mark in his life.  
  
“Unless you’re in a rush,” Jensen says, as if he can read Jared’s mind. “We can head back.”  
  
Jared squares his shoulders and sets his jaw. “We’ve come this far. I have to see it. Let’s go.”  
  
The drizzle has morphed into a steady rain by the time they make it back to the point Jensen had indicated. Jared’s drenched to the bone. It’s not so much a drip running down his scalp as it is a steady stream, tiny rivers coursing along either side of his nose and pouring off of the point of his chin.  
  
At first, the downhill trudge is a blessing after the last two hours spent on a slight incline that had sapped his energy and made the thin air feel even thinner. Now, it’s just as tough, his feet slipping on the mossy ground, a layer of mud just underneath. Jared’s fingers have gone oversensitive and prickly, waterlogged and wrinkled up like raisins. He pushes at his hair and plucks uselessly at his shirt, shifts at his belt where the sodden thing is rubbing a raw spot on his hip. His shoes have soaked through and his feet squelch in his socks. His back hurts and his feet hurt and this whole adventure is a lot less fun than it seemed on paper.  
  
Jensen hasn’t fared much better. He’s gone sullen and quiet, grunting a little when his heels skid along the ground. At one point he digs his crunched up fisherman’s hat from his backpack and jams it on his head only to give up on it minutes later, wringing it out and storing it away once more. He keeps pausing, finding rock outcroppings or other sorts of landmarks and referring to the map. He doesn’t use a compass, and keeps squinting into the distance, and unleashes an impressively vile string of curses at Jared when Jared asks him if they’re lost.  
  
After a particularly precarious trip down a steep slope, Jensen finally calls it. “This is pointless. And more so, acute torture. We’re done.”  
  
Jared’s stuck between a deadline and his curiosity. “But we’re running out of time.”  
  
“Time,” Jensen muses, wiping a hand across his face and impotently flicking water from his fingers. “One thing about time is that there is always more when that came from.”  
  
Jared could point out the lack of logic in that, but he hands Jensen a pass. Early evening is falling, the sun blocked by a taller mountain range to the west and casting an eerie shadow over the forest. What little warmth the air was holding has disappeared. Jared shivers.  
  
Jensen’s eyes tick across the tree line, seems to find what he’s looking for and makes an abrupt turn. He leads them to a tall pine tree, almost black against the darkening sky. The thing is huge, its lower branches brushing the ground in a wide arc. “Trust me,” Jensen says as he holds back one of the long branches and makes a sweeping gesture with his arm, like he’s a doorman at some five-star motel.  
  
It takes a minute for Jared’s eyes to adjust to the dim interior. It’s still chilly, but the pine needles carpeting the ground are dry, rustling and crackling beneath his boot heels. The branches form a steep, slanted roof, the rain skitters off of their exterior, and very few drops reach them. The lower branches shoot off at about chest height on Jared at regular intervals and a clean smell fills his nose.  
  
“A wayward pine,” Jensen tells him. “It keeps the rain off.” He drops his gear and without compunction peels his shirt off and hangs it from a branch above his head. His boots come off next, followed by his shorts.  
  
Jared is stuck there, watching the shift of Jensen’s back in the blue-black light, the shape of his shoulders and the way his damp boxers cling to the curve of his ass.  
  
“Do you plan to just stand there and drip?” Jensen asks when he catches Jared staring. He pulls a shirt over his head. “Cold is one thing, but cold and wet is something else entirely.”  
  
Jared digs out a fresh set of clothes, only mildly soggy, and sets about changing while Jensen takes stock of his pack, laying out his sleeping bag and running his palms along it’s quilted surface. Jared settles onto the ground and rests his elbows on his knees.  
  
Jensen brushes pine needles away from the knobby base of the tree, exposing a ring of dark, loamy soil. He takes his knife and busies himself at the tree trunk, his body blocking Jared’s view.  
  
“Are you carving our initials?” Jared teases.  
  
Without turning around, Jensen asks, “Why would I do that?”  
  
“It’s…never mind,” Jared says.  
  
A dim blue spark ignites and when he steps aside Jared’s surprised. A small fire now burns at a knob on the trunk, shooting out sparks that peter out harmlessly before reaching the ground. The pine smell increases, heady and thick when Jensen lights another point on the trunk. Tendrils of smoke rise close to the center of the tree, the slight heat of the fires working to force it upward like a chimney.  
  
Stepping back to admire his handiwork, Jensen tells him, “It only lasts a couple of hours, but it’ll go long enough.”  
  
“Does it burn the tree?”  
  
Jensen shakes his head. “It’s the sap that burns, not the wood.” He lights a couple more spots, nearer to the ground before sitting down beside Jared. “I don’t want to risk anything more.”  
  
A hush has fallen over their surroundings, the rain sending the inhabitants of the forest into their dens for the evening. Crackles and small pops from the fire fill the void. “Where did you learn this?” Jared asks, his voice pitched in a soft whisper.  
  
Jensen shrugs. “It’s just one of those things that you pick up along the way. Spend enough time out in the woods and you learn this sort of stuff.”  
  
“A real survivalist,” Jared says, and shifts over to bump his shoulder into Jensen’s.  
  
Jensen leans into Jared and bumps him back. “If that’s what you want to call it, sure.”  
  
“Forest whisperer.”  
  
Jensen crooks an eyebrow, his expression in the shape of a question. It’s odd, for all the things that Jensen knows, there are huge, puzzling gaps.  
  
“You know, like people who can talk to dogs or horses or…” Jared makes a twirling motion with his hand.  
  
“Ah,” Jensen says. “There was a book, right?”  
  
“And a few TV shows.”  
  
“I’ve never been too big on television.”  
  
That explains a lot. “There are certain folks who say they can talk to things. Like dogs. Or ghosts or…whatever.” Jared explains. “You can talk to the forest.”  
  
“I sort of think that everyone can. It’s just that most people have forgotten how.”  
  
“You have a point.” Jared fiddles absently with a twig, twirling it between his fingers until it snaps.  
  
There’s something timeless about this place, like the real world of deadlines and supervisors and modern contrivances might possibly not exist at all. It could all be science fiction, Jules Verne and men in space helmets. Here, in the middle of god’s green nowhere, it all seems artificial. Pointless and very, very far away, and right then, more than anything, Jared wants to see the world the way Jensen sees it.  
  
“What brought you here?” Jensen says suddenly.  
  
“At this point, I think you have a better grasp on that than I do,” Jared jokes.  
  
“You know what I mean.”  
  
“A misspent youth,” Jared begins. “I used to read a lot.”  
  
“Something tells me you still do.”  
  
“Different stuff now, but yeah. Anyway, I’d get all wrapped up in these fictional places, and want to learn more about the characters. I couldn’t get enough. At one point it sorta clicked. You can read histories. You can learn about our deeds and the things that we build, and still not get the whole picture. Our stories are what are important, the things we _choose_ to remember. I started to study folklore in college. I liked it, so I studied it some more.”  
  
“As for dragons...” Jensen urges him.  
  
“The god Marduk had a dragon as a companion. It’s Sumerian, about as far back as you can go. The mythology is pervasive, widespread. It spans continents. Hell, it jumps continents. If that many people believe in something, there has to be some speck of truth to it.”  
  
The rain has slowed, and the night has grown colder in the wake of the storm. Jensen is still very close, head lolling toward Jared’s shoulder. He leans back, ankles crossed and legs kicked out toward the center of the tree. Jared rubs at his upper arms, chilly. Jensen runs hot, and Jared can feel the heat from his skin in all the places where they almost touch.  
  
“Continents,” Jensen parrots. “Why here, then?”  
  
“Think about the people in Madara, and the rituals they keep. They don’t do it because of tradition, or because it’s what their grandparents did. They do it because they still believe in magic. It’s real here.”  
  
Jensen nods slowly. “Are you glad you came?”  
  
With a smile, Jared says, “Yeah. I mean. Last night was…” he pauses, searching for the right descriptor. Nothing seems to fit right, so he tries a few on for size. “Frightening. Amazing. Really fucking strange. I still can’t figure it out, but yeah. You?”  
  
Jensen pats Jared’s thigh and lets his hand linger there, thumb moving in circle before drawing away. “Absolutely.”  
  
Jared thinks about the bonfire, Veta’s slow dance across hot coals, and about how badly he wanted to kiss Jensen then. How badly he still wants to. He stares at the tiny tongues of flame on the trunk of the tree and doesn’t see any faces in them.  
  
Pressing two fingers to Jared’s temple, Jensen says, “Are you in there?”  
  
“I almost kissed you.” Jared’s never been so impulsive in his life.  
  
“I know. I don’t think I would have stopped you.” Jensen sounds so calm about it, so goddamn practical.  
  
Jared tilts into Jensen, fits the bridge of his nose against the sharp cut of his jaw and breathes in the smell of him, woodsy with an undercurrent of sweat.  
  
Jensen places a stilling hand on Jared’s knee. “Wait. You don’t know what you’re doing.”  
  
“You’re right. I don’t. But I don’t think I have to,” Jared says, letting his vision go blurry. Indistinct, soft around the edges. Jared curls his fingers in the sleeve of Jensen’s t-shirt, and even the thin cotton feels warm to the touch, bunched up to expose the curve of Jensen’s arm, the shape of the muscle under his skin.  
  
“You’re cold and tired and this has been a waste of a day.”  
  
“It hasn’t been a complete waste.”  
  
Jared skims his knuckles along the curve of Jensen’s ear and kisses him, a slow drag of his mouth against Jensen’s. Jensen’s lips are soft, a little chapped, and his mouth gives some under the press of Jared’s. A quiet noise in the back of his throat makes the seam of his mouth vibrate a little, and a small shudder buzzes up Jared’s spine.  
  
Jared’s scalp feels prickly, as if he’s run across some sort of electric shock, and he seeks out the ground with the heel of his hand, cushioned by the pine needles beneath them. When he pulls back, Jensen’s mouth is slightly parted. Jensen’s still, very slow to blink his eyes open, and as he finally does, his glance is dark and heated. A rush of blood tints his cheeks into bright high color. Something about Jensen seems different, though, and Jared can’t quite hit the mark of it.  
  
Jared moves closer only a few inches, but Jensen matches the movement and retreats, keeping a distance between the two of them.  
  
Jensen stammers, “It’s. This is not a good idea.”  
  
“Depends on who you ask,” Jared says and sits back, but leaves his hand tangled in the sleeve of Jensen’s shirt.  
  
“I didn’t say it was a _bad_ idea. Just not a good one. Not yet.” Something seems to bend in Jensen then, maybe his willpower or maybe his heart, and he shoves into the space between them, thumbs at Jared’s chin to tip him in a very specific direction and kisses him again, more urgent this time, sucking at Jared’s bottom lip and licking at it with slow deliberate swipes of his tongue. The touch of it is thrilling.  
  
When they break, Jared asks, “Not yet? Then when?”  
  
Jensen clenches his jaw, teeth a white glint in the darkness, then shakes his head. “Forget what I said.” He lunges forward, reaches out to Jared and buries his hands in Jared’s hair. “Forget it,” and then he’s kissing Jared in earnest, nipping at his mouth in a way that’s almost too rough, sharp pinpricks of pain where his canine teeth sink in. Jensen’s skin is so hot, bordering on feverish, and he hisses when Jared fumbles with the hem of his shirt and spreads his cold hands on the small of his back.  
  
He shifts his weight and pulls Jared forward, toppling himself to his back and yanking Jared over him like a blanket. Jensen’s chest is solid and strong beneath him and Jared curls his hands around Jensen’s shoulders, slots their legs together and rocks down hard.  
  
In the tiniest part of his head that’s not filled with Jensen, the way he bucks up and the urgent shift of hips against hips, Jared wonders what will become of them. He’s not like this. His life up to this point has been steady, laser guided and so damn careful. He’s not one to jump into something blind, and yet here he is.  
  
Jared loses track as they rock together, Jensen’s body fitting alongside his in all the right ways, the hiss of sap burning drowned out by their panting breaths as they roll and rut against each other. Jensen starts mumbling something low, unintelligible, but Jared catches the gist of it as Jensen moans, hoarse and rough.  
  
With a quick movement, Jensen shoves at him and Jared lets loose a startled laugh. Jensen’s not small, not by any stretch of the imagination, but Jared has a few inches on him and at least twenty pounds. It comes as a surprise, Jensen sturdy frame hiding an underlying and unexpected strength.  
  
Jared grabs at him, hooking a leg over Jensen’s hip and digging his heel in to pull him even closer. He tugs at their clothes, impatient and wanting, his cock hard and sticky, restricted in his pants. Jared’s close, so goddamn close, and Jensen has barely even touched him.  
  
Jensen’s urgent movements stop, some sort of light dancing in his eyes. He touches Jared’s face, fingertips barely a hint as they skim across Jared’s lips, down the bridge of his nose, along his forehead, like merely seeing him isn’t enough. “Everything fits,” Jensen pants, and he sounds surprised, like the thought has hit him off guard. “Perfect.”  
  
Jared pulls him down for another kiss. Jensen isn’t making any sense, but Jared gets it, somehow.  


 

  
  
Momentary panic greets Jared when he wakes up alone, one arm flung out in place where Jensen ought to be. It fades quickly enough. Jensen’s gear is still stowed a few feet away, his shirt and shoes in a rumpled pile in front of his pack. The interior of the pine is green tinged.  
  
Jared rises slowly, ducking a wrist-thick branch and stretching, jaw popping on a yawn. Yesterday’s deluge has left the forest damp, leaves covered in drops of water form crystalline points of brilliant light and leave Jared’s vision spotty. Jared picks a direction and starts walking, working the kinks out of his back and picking pine needles out of his hair as he ambles. The day is just now starting to get its land legs, the forest waking up with the chatter of birds.  
  
Last night, he’d been so intent on following Jensen and not sliding in the mud that he’d failed to take note of his surroundings. The elevation offers a view of the valley, the river a thin green thread hundreds of feet below. A wisp of wood smoke hits Jared and he follows the smell. A small fire burns, a pot of hot water steaming on a rock set in the middle of it. He finds Jensen standing on the edge of a deep gully, barefooted and naked from the waist up, cradling a tin mug between his hands.  
  
Jared sidles up to him, drags his hand down the dip of Jensen’s spine, finds a belt loop and tugs him in close, hooks his chin over Jensen’s shoulder. Jensen tips backward, rocks on his heels and hums a little as Jared clasps his hands in front of his stomach, wrists rubbing along bare skin.  
  
Over analysis is second nature to Jared; he can hardly get out of bed in the morning without a carefully drawn up game plan, and this thing with Jensen has an expiration date that’s fast approaching. Jared’s not going to look at it too closely. He can’t.  
  
“I made a mistake,” Jensen says.  
  
It sends a cold needle of doubt into Jared’s chest. He hugs Jensen tighter, and waits for it to hit. For all Jared’s logic and careful consideration, of course Jensen would be the one to have his head on straight right now.  
  
The ice in Jared’s veins melts just as fast as Jensen clarifies, “We went the wrong way. Last night,” Gazing across the valley stretched out beneath them, he continues. “We’re closer to…” he stops. “We’ll figure it out.”  
  
A jangling sound echoes across the gully and someone comes into view. He’s got a fishing pole propped on his shoulder and a basket slung across his chest, held with a wide leather strap. A strip of white cloth is tied to his upper arm. He notices them and pauses, raising his hand in salute. Jared is immediately reminded of the children they saw beside the railroad tracks.  
  
“Roma,” Jensen mutters, his lips barely moving. “Their camp must be nearby.”  
  
“Gypsies?” Jared asks.  
  
Jensen hums. He raises his hand and returns the greeting. The man across the gully nods and continues along his path.  
  
Jensen spins in the circle of Jared’s arms, and clasps the back of Jared’s neck, pulling him down for a slow kiss that tastes like coffee. He takes one last sip and presses the mug into Jared’s hand. It’s instant, muddy and thick with too much powder and not enough water. Hot though, and caffeinated.  
  
“Finish waking up,” Jensen says. “I’ll get us packed.”  
  
“Miles to go,” Jared calls after him.  
  
Over his shoulder, Jensen hollers, “And promises to keep.”  
  
Jared smiles into his coffee cup. This is a hell of a way to fall in love.  
  


 

  
  
Jared can hear the signs of human occupation twenty minutes before the first visible evidence of it: a flash of rowdy laughter, the ringing bang of a hammer against metal, a snippet of a low, drawn out melody from some kind of stringed instrument.  
  
Jensen has kept up a steady monologue since they broke camp and started walking. "Most of what you've heard is probably true," he says. "They're not very welcoming to strangers. I think they’ll know me.”  
  
“How?” Jared asks.  
  
“From Sofia,” Jensen answers vaguely. “There was a big protest a month or so ago, and I…I got involved. Stick close and you'll be fine." He stops suddenly, pulling Jared up short by his collar. "Don't turn into Margaret Mead while you're here. They're people, not specimens."  
  
"Aye, aye, captain," Jared replies with a nod. It's a rare opportunity, this visit with the Romani. The first leg of his journey had taken him past a gypsy encampment on the outskirts of Sofia. A terrible place, a shantytown if Jared had ever seen one, small huts crouching together behind their government enforced borders, crowded with hollowed-out shells of a population, beggars lining the tall fence that marked the boundary. It had left a bad taste in his mouth, acidic and just plain wrong.  
  
Flashes of color come next, a flicker of red in the distance, a reflection of something metallic in the sunlight, until the camp swims into view.  
  
"What's the plan? Are we just gonna walk on in?" He's done his fair share of ethnography, embedded anthropology and studying of cultures different from his own, but his studies have always been planned things, set up months in advance with prior communication with a contact in a particular village or city. "They don't know we're coming."  
  
"Oh, they know we're here. For the last half hour at least," Jensen says.  
  
A young girl comes dashing toward them, jumping over a fallen branch and swerving past tree trunks. She's no more than five or six, pink ribbons holding her dark hair in pigtails, a definite widow's peak pointing straight at her nose. Hot on her heels is a boy of similar age, and he rams into her as the girl freezes in her tracks, nearly toppling both of them over. They're so similar that there has to be some shared blood, both with skin the color of coffee and cream, and shiny black hair that matches the color of their eyes. These children regard Jared and Jensen with twin expressions of curious caution, then both make a turn, nearly synchronized and head toward the camp, feet flying and small fists pumping.  
  
They've made it barely another three yards when a man appears from behind a broad tree trunk. He carries a dark grained walking stick, shoulder tall and wrist thick. He's thin as a rail, like a strong enough wind might send him toppling, most of his face hidden behind a scraggly beard and chin length hair. A white band adorns his bowler hat, and the dark blue of his jacket is broken with another strip of white cloth tied high around his arm.  
  
"Wait here," Jensen says and walks ahead. The man's face breaks as Jensen approaches, his grin splitting bright white through the dark beard. He pulls Jensen to him, and they clasp each other’s forearms. It's not a stranger’s greeting, more like a welcome to an old friend, and Jared thinks that there's much more to all of this than Jensen is letting on.  
  
Introductions are made and the two of them are led into the camp. It's a small caravan, wagons, carts and campers drawn into a horseshoe shape, tents, lean-to's, and bright canvas pavilions filling in the spaces between them. A few dogs wander the area, mangy with ribs visible through their skin. Hangers on, looking for scraps.  
  
At first inspection, the tribe looks to be about twenty strong. They are all slowly emerging from their trailers and tents to gather in the open space in the center, children hiding behind the adults, small hands tangled in parents' skirts and trousers, their clothes bright splashes of color against the dingy backdrop of road dusty campers and tents. A fire burns there, ringed with logs for seats. Over the fire stands a rigged scaffold built of scavenged metal, a large cast iron pot steaming away.  
  
When Jensen joins him again, he expression is stormy. "They were kicked out," he says. "I was wondering what had brought them this far."  
  
"I thought they were travelers," Jared says. "Nomadic."  
  
"Not all of them. They had a camp in Sofia. It was on municipal property, sure, but some of them had lived there for decades." He waves a hand in the direction of the children who they'd run into on the way here. They're now hunkered on a log near the fire, playing some sort of game that involves hand slapping and a whole lot of laughter. "The city government is planning to raze it. No one likes to be forced out of their home."  
  
A woman sits alone in a rocking chair set on the forest floor, hands folded in her lap and holding a very small book. She's all in white, her dark hair a stark contrast as it spills glossy and curled over her shoulders. Her feet are bare, mud stained, and she casts an empty stare into the distance.  
  
"There she is," Jensen breathes, quiet. He dives into a side pocket of his pack and retrieves a small, cloth wrapped bundle. "She’s in mourning.” He gestures around the area. See all the white?”  
  
With a nod, Jared asks, "Her husband?"  
  
"Yes," he says simply, then drops his pack at Jared's feet. "When a member of the tribe passes away, they burn all of his or her possessions. It doesn't make sense."  
  
"Traditions don't need to make sense," Jared points out.  
  
"Think of this man's family," Jensen says. "They're left with nothing."  
  
"Security isn't nothing. This is an area where my study is admittedly lax," Jared starts, trying to reign back the professor in him and failing miserably. He's going into lecture mode and he knows it. "Why do they burn his stuff? It has to have something to do with fear. His spirit can be tied to his worldly possessions, right?"  
  
Jensen nods.  
  
"Then it's security. Ghosts are real."  
  
"This, coming from the guy who believes in dragons."  
  
"Roll with me, here. They believe in them, so they're real. Burn his belongings and it releases him from this world. His family won't be haunted."  
  
"Superstition trumps economy," Jensen says, musing.  
  
"Exactly."  
  
“You do realize that you’re biased, right?”  
  
“Never said I wasn’t,” Jared replies. “You have to admit that it makes sense.”  
  
"I’ll give you that. It still won't stop me from helping," Jensen says, and walks over to the woman. He places a kiss on her temple, smoothes back her hair in a way that's familiar and intimate. She finally focuses on him, touches his face and gives him a small and watery smile. Her eyes are shining, tears on the verge of spilling over, but she puts on a brave face as Jensen crouches down in front of her. He presses the cloth wrapped gift into her hands.  
  
It's difficult to see from this distance, and Jared can’t make out what they’re saying, but her expression looks like thank you when she unwraps the gift. It's a bracelet, a bangle fashioned out of pale green jade. Jensen takes her hand and slips it onto her wrist where it joins a few others, all hammered out of silver, then tangles his fingers in hers and squeezes. He rises and kisses her cheek again.  
  
The afternoon passes slowly. The two of them are given a tour of the camp by the man who first greeted them in the forest. His Bulgarian is spotty, but a combination of hand gestures and broken language sees them through.  
  
Meals are a communal thing, eaten out of mismatched bowls, from fine delicate china to utilitarian earthenware. Jared gratefully accepts a mug of coffee, black as tar and nearly as thick, boiling hot and the best thing he's ever had the opportunity to drink. The stew he's handed is equally hot and has an earthy flavor to it, chock full of root vegetables and spices.  
  
"We're going to have to talk about this eventually, you know." Jared leans over toward Jensen, nudging his widespread leg with a knee.  
  
"There's nothing to talk about," Jensen says, turning away to talk with another member of the tribe. There's been an endless parade of people coming up to him, whispered conversations and significant looks over his shoulder at Jared.  
  
The evening wears on and a few members pick up instruments, a drum, a violin and a flute fashioned out of wood. They start up a song, lively and energetic. Jared leans back on the log and stretches his feet toward the fire, watches the lazy swirl of sparks caught in the updraft. A full stomach combined with a few pulls off of a jug of thick syrupy liquor has his mind drifting and has dropped lead weights on his eyelids. Jensen is by his side, calm, relaxed and laughing, clapping along when the music. He's as at home here as anywhere else.  
  
A hand on his shoulder brings Jared fully awake. He's not sure how much time has passed, but it has to have been a while. The fire has burned down and the camp has mostly gone to bed, a few men sitting on the opposite side of the fire linger over a bottle of wine.  
  
"Hey," Jensen says as he hovers over him. He takes both of Jared's hands in his and presses a kiss to the inside of Jared's wrist, then leans and kisses him on the mouth. "You awake?"  
  
"Almost," Jared says, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. They're gritty, stinging when the wind changes direction and blows wood smoke into them. "Is it time to leave?" His voice sounds very young in his ears.  
  
"Soon, yeah," Jensen says. "But first, there's something for you to do."  
  
He offers a hand and pulls Jared to his feet. He starts to let go, fingernails skirting the edge of Jared's palm, but on impulse Jared grabs at them, tangling them together. Jensen misses a step and Jared nearly lets go, but Jensen quickly recovers from the small stutter and holds on tightly.  
  
"She's the matriarch of the tribe. If anyone here is the leader, it's her," Jensen tells him, head cocked closed to Jared's ear and breath tickling his skin. "She's still in mourning. It lasts a year. She's going to do a reading for you. Work is prohibited to her, but she wants to do this. It's a gift. She's incredibly talented."  
  
Jensen leads them behind the circle of wagons and tents. The widow sits at a square table, the center of it lit by an oil lamp. She's still all in white, a ghostly glow in the surrounding gloom. Jared takes the chair opposite her. This is the closest he's been to her, and at first he'd thought she was much younger. Now, he can see that her dark hair is threaded with coarse silver strands, and her face is delicately wrinkled, shallow lines branching out from the corners of her eyes and around her mouth. Her dark eyes are striking and her gaze makes Jared want to squirm. She reaches out and clasps Jared's hand in a strong grip, the tendons in her wrist straining. "Are you the next?" she asks. Jared can feel Jensen grow tense beside him.  
  
Not really getting her meaning, Jared says, "I suppose so."  
  
"Good," she says, satisfied, glancing between the two of them with a smile.  
  
Jared is expecting tarot, perhaps tea leaves or some sort of palmistry. Instead, she pulls a deck of playing card from a deep pocket in her shirt, tied together with a thin, criss-crossed leather strap, the cards dog eared and frayed. She shuffles them with a practiced ease, then places the cards in a neat stack on the table and motions to Jared to cut the deck.  
  
She picks them up, balancing them on the palm of her hand and laying her other hand on top of them. Jensen stands behind her and touches her shoulder deliberately.  
  
Jared shivers, fine hairs on the back of his neck rising to attention and he feels something wispy brush across his face, like he's just now walked headlong into a spider web.  
  
Plucking the first card, the fortune teller places it face down on the table. Two more follow suit. Pointing at each one in succession, she says, "Past, present and future. These are indicators. They set the theme."  
  
She flips the first one over to reveal the six of spades, the markings worn nearly to the point of being indistinct. "Spades," she says. "Not a good way to start. Bad luck all around. A lot of work with little result." Below that she places the jack of hearts. "A dark haired man," she says with a nod. "He knows how to flatter, but not how to praise."  
  
The center card is flipped over, the three of hearts. "An unwise decision," she says as she taps the card with a fingernail. The next to fall is a seven of clubs. "A card of good luck. So not unwise so much as unplanned." Behind her, Jensen's smiling, slow and soft, rubbing his finger along his bottom lip.  
  
The eight of hearts follows. "Something is being planned as we speak."  
  
"Can you tell me what?" Jared asks.  
  
She waves her hand over the cards. "Some sort of event. A celebration. Perhaps a ceremony? Something that will take you by surprise."  
  
"It's not my birthday." This earns a snort of laughter from Jensen.  
  
Future comes next, and she deals the cards in quick succession. She sits back in order to take in the full spread of cards, then with an abrupt motion, sweeps them all away. Three more cards are dealt and she brushes them off the table as well before Jared can even see what they are. She flips over one last card and places it in the center of the table. It’s the king of clubs.  
  
“Make your decision,” she says. “It doesn’t matter if it’s yes or no. Make it and never look back. But remember that you can trust him.” She gathers her cards and hides them away in her pocket. “Go. Sleep. Tomorrow is an important day.”  
  
"Thank you," Jared kisses her hand.  
  
"We've been invited to stay," Jensen says as they walk away from the table. In the distance, someone is playing music again, a single violin harping out a slow and sleepy song. "Tomorrow we’ll make it to the cave. It isn't far from here."  
  
Jared considers it. The prospect of good hot coffee and a warm breakfast beats out the need to put in another few miles before making a cold camp.  
  
A wagon has been set up for him a small distance away from the rest, his pack stowed behind one of the large, rickety wheels. The bed of the wagon is piled with patchwork quilts, their bright colors muted by night. Jared sits on the edge and unlaces his boots. Jensen lingers, smacks at Jared's shirt when Jared flings it in his direction, then settles his body between Jared's spread knees.  
  
He grabs Jared by the back of his neck and kisses him soundly, breaking off with a small nip to Jared's bottom lip. "See you in the morning," he says. "I'll be right over there if you need me." He indicates a similar wagon on the other side of the circular set up.  
  
"You can stay," Jared says, then clarifies. "I want you to stay."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah," Jared says, a thrill shooting through him at the coy tilt to Jensen's head.  
  
"Then I'll stay."  
  
Jensen ditches his boots and settles onto his back in the wagon, shifting the blankets and building himself a nest in the center. Jared slides in beside him, winds his arm behind Jensen's neck and strokes his hand along Jensen's upper arm. A break in the trees is directly overhead, the sky a pincushion of stars, more stars than Jared's ever seen.  
  
"Who was it...was it the Lilliputians that spent all their time looking up at the sky? So much time that they never noticed when they walked off the edge of the earth?" Jensen whispers.  
  
"It was the Laputians,” Jared corrects him. “From Laputa. Spanish for whore."  
  
"I never made that connection."  
  
Jared shifts. "Yeah, it was allegorical. Something about the deism movement at the time."  
  
Jensen shrugs. "Satire," he says. "I prefer to take it at face value."  
  
"It's important to not look too far into things sometimes," Jared agrees.  
  
"I knew you were smart."  
  
"Pretty well rounded too."  
  
"I get that," Jensen says and crowds in closer, pushing up to kiss Jared's neck. "I've wanted to do this all day," he mutters, shoving at Jared until he's flat on his back then covering Jared's body with his own. “It’s all I can think about.” He slips his thigh between Jared's and presses into him, making Jared's breath catch in his throat. He's not sure where their closest neighbor is sleeping: the camp is quiet, not a hint of movement and he wants to keep it that way, but it's impossibly hard to stay quiet with Jensen’s mouth on his throat.  
  
Jared wants to laugh, poke fun at himself for the wreck that Jensen has made of him. He's love struck, dopey as a teenager with it and just as reckless. It's unlike him to fall so hard and so fast, and some small part of him keeps expecting to hit bedrock, crash and split wide open and just bleed out. But right now, with Jensen covering him so completely, the tickle of Jensen's hair against his cheek and the feel of him so heavy and hot and perfect, Jared can think of no better way to go.  
  
Jensen ruts against him, cuts off a hissing breath with a frustrated sound, and fumbles at the button of Jared's pants. He gets his hand wrapped around Jared's cock and tugs it out, the cool night air a shock to Jared's overheated skin. With another long, lingering kiss, he slides down Jared's body, pulling and tugging at Jared's jeans. He pushes Jared's legs further apart and settles between them, his back curving in a way that's almost feral and completely alluring. He teases at Jared's cock with tentative licks, flicks his tongue against the slit, and rubs the head against his mouth until his lips are slick and shiny with precome. His fingers dig in along Jared's hipbone, his palm a perfect fit over the protrusion of bone there.  
  
Jared squirms at the teasing pressure of Jensen's tongue. Jensen snaps the elastic of his boxers, pulling them behind Jared's balls and forcing them up, then rolls them between his fingers and gives a gentle tug. Jensen flattens his tongue on the underside of Jared's cock and licks a slow path upward, humming a little at the taste and Jared sinks his hips into the thick mass of blankets beneath them, fighting the urge to push up into the welcoming heat of Jensen's mouth. He flings an arm across his face, biting at the crook of his elbow to stifle his moan.  
  
It’s utterly debauched, the sight of Jensen with his mouth stretched wide around the width of Jared’s dick, the strain in his neck, cords of muscle in his arms as he holds himself up and works his mouth up and down the length of him, his chin sloppy and wet with spit. It’s the sight of it that tips Jared over, his orgasm toe-curling and intense. He tips his head backward and lets his hips snap forward, shooting down Jensen’s throat.  
  
The way that Jensen swipes at the corners of his mouth is almost delicate, gathering Jared’s spunk and licking his fingers. Jared pulls him close, tastes himself when they kiss, and trails his hands down Jensen’s stomach. He’s a gentleman, after all, and it’s only fair that he repay the favor.  
  
“I’m good,” Jensen pants, his mouth swollen and flushed. His chest rises and falls fast.  
  
Jared works past the loose waistband of Jensen’s shorts, sticky and slick with come. “Fuck,” Jared says. He’s slow, sex drunk and sloppy.  
  
“Yeah,” Jensen says, turning his face into Jared’s neck, hiding an embarrassed flush so bright that he almost glows with it.  
  
“I barely even touched you.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“That’s fucking hot,” Jared mumbles, and flips Jensen over, shoving Jensen’s arms over his head and trailing his fingers down the inside of them until Jensen snickers.  
  
He yanks Jensen’s shorts down barely past his hips, Jensen’s come a slick mess on his lower stomach, his cock half hard and curving toward his belly button. He licks at it, gathering the bitter taste of Jensen’s come onto his tongue and pressing it to the roof of his mouth, rolling it around.  
  
Jensen gasps his name above him and his cock gives a feeble, spent twitch. He sucks on it, small kitten licks and feels Jensen start to harden in his mouth, growing heavy and blood hot against his tongue. He moans against the feel of it, releases it with a wet sounding pop, and gives it a few experimental tugs.  
  
“You ready to go again?” Jared asks.  
  
Jensen hitches his hips in response, digs his hand into Jared’s hair and slips it through his fingers. “What you do to me…” He doesn’t finish the thought, cutting off when Jared sucks his cock in, curls his tongue along the ridge on the underside and takes him down deep.  
  
A sound in the woods makes Jared freeze, some dry snap nearby. Fanciful scenarios flip through Jared’s mind, every slasher flick he’s ever seen, swamp monsters and big dudes in hockey masks.  
  
All those thoughts dissolve when Jensen says his name in a voice deep and harsh with need. It hits Jared hard, like a sucker punch to the gut. Jensen whines low and angles his hips upward when he swallows Jensen down even deeper, the head of Jensen’s cock fitting against the roof of his mouth and sliding in further to nudge at the back of his throat. Jared backs off, gasping for air but then takes his right back in. His cock grows impossibly harder, a thick pulsing heat hitting the back of his throat as Jensen comes. Jared licks and sucks him through it, his jaw cracked wide and his eyes watering.  
  
He crawls up along the length of Jensen’s body and settles in close. His sweaty skin pebbles as it cools, still slick and hot in all the places that they’re touching. Jensen tangles their legs together and notches his chin against the crook of Jared’s neck.  
  
His voice is a wrecked think when he speaks. Hoarse and painful. He licks his lips, tastes the faint traces of Jensen still remaining and tries again. “Tomorrow. We’ll get there tomorrow.”  
  
Already mostly dozing, Jensen hums an affirmative. “Not long now.”  
  
He’s sure that Jensen is mostly asleep when he speaks again. It’s quiet, a secret. “I don’t want it to end.”  
  
Jensen sits part of the way up, propping himself on his elbow and hovering over Jared. The look he gives him is a searching one, wide-awake and startlingly clear. “What did you say?”  
  
“Nothing,” Jared lies. “It wasn’t important.” It’s Jared’s turn to blush, caught out in the open this way.  
  
“Something tells me it was.” Jensen drops it, kisses Jared’s cheekbone and tucks his hair behind his ear.  
  
The touch is so close and so familiar that Jared’s heart aches with it, and in that instant, the real world, his life, the university, his research seems like a life lived by somebody else, someone who looks and talks a lot like him but is different in a million fundamental ways. Jensen is here. Tangible. Close. That’s what matters.  
  
Right before he nods off, just as he’s balancing on the knife edge between awake and asleep, Jensen’s voice breaks through. Less than a whisper and quiet as a shared thought. In the morning, Jared will think it was a dream.  
  
“It doesn’t have to end,” Jensen says. “There’s a place for you with me. You never have to go.”  
  


 

  
  
Jared’s panting. He’s had a rock in his shoe for the last half a mile, the thing rolling around near his toes and digging past his sock. They’re close though, and it would be a sin to break the inertia they’ve built up over the course of the morning.  
  
A steady upward trudge eats the miles and works loose the stiff muscles Jared had earned sleeping in the wooden wagon. The tribe had seen them off well, stocking them with dried meat and a loaf of crusty dense bread.  
  
Jensen hasn't stopped to check the map once, as if the place they're heading is a magnetic north and Jensen is wired to respond. He forges ahead, confidently stepping over roots and loose rock, the forest growing thinner and thinner until just a few craggy trees dot the landscape. The path they walk is well worn, a rut in the springy loam of the forest floor, moss creeping in around the edges.  
  
Jared's chin is tucked close to his chest, thumbs looped into the straps of his backpack and his refilled canteen bouncing on his hip. He doesn't notice when Jensen stops, and runs into Jensen's outstretched arm.  
  
"We're here," Jensen says.  
  
Jared does look up then. The opening of the cave looks like some enormous axe has cleaved the stone in two, a triangular gaping hole in the wall of rock. It had to have been some cataclysmic event a few thousand years ago that created this cavern, striation in the rock matching up perfectly on both sides.  
  
Evidence of past visitors lines the rock wall. Dried flowers, scraps of cloth that once held food before forest dwellers made off with it. A brass pitcher now corroded. A porceline doll with blank blue eyes that Jared finds particularly disturbing. Some of it has been here for mere months and most of it for years, perhaps decades. Jared stoops in front of a pyramid built out of shiny purple stones, a cairn built in miniature.  
  
"No. Don't," Jensen orders. "This wasn't left here for you."  
  
More offerings have been placed in the entranceway to the cave, artifacts that are older, more dirt clogged and riddled with debris. Jared steps around them carefully.  
  
A few feet past the entrance, and Jared starts to feel jumpy. He's never been claustrophobic, has spent much of his adult life in windowless libraries and more recently in an office made of cinderblock, so small that he didn't have to fully extend his arms in any direction to be able to place his hands flat on each wall. He's not sure what it is now, equal parts anticipation and nervous energy, but he's keenly aware of the sheer pressure of rock inches above his head.  
  
The tunnel is small, and there are places where his shoulders touch on either side and he needs to slide through sideways. Jensen is close behind him, flashlight illuminating the way, a solid and constant presence all along his back. Jared feels his chest start to constrict, an iron band wrapped around his ribs that grows tighter with each step. His vision narrows down and black spots starting to swim around the corners. He can't get a deep breath and his head floats, his gravity upended. He stumbles, jabbing his arm painfully against a sharp protrusion rock. His fingertips start to go numb and he can't feel his toes, can't feel anything below his knees if he’s honest, and his blood pounds in his ears.  
  
Jensen's there immediately, a dry palm on his sweaty neck. "Jared," he whispers. "Hey, Jared," he tries again, with more urgency the second time around. He wheels Jared, manhandling him easily so that his back rests against the cool wall of the cave. He touches Jared's cheek. "You're okay."  
  
It's the last thing Jared hears before he comes back to reality with a gasp. He's horizontal, rough stone digging into his back and his ass. Something must be wrong with his eyesight because he catches a glimpse of a pale blue light that disappears as soon as he moves slightly, and is replaced with the orange glow of Jensen's flashlight.  
  
His head is in Jensen's lap, and Jensen absently brushes his hair away from his sweaty forehead.  
  
"What happened?" he asks, groggy.  
  
"I think you hyperventilated," Jensen says.  
  
"Jesus."  
  
"Then you passed out," Jensen says, adding, "for an hour."  
  
"Did you try and stop me?"  
  
"Didn't have a paper bag handy," Jensen explains, offhanded. "I read somewhere that it's best to just let the person faint. Breathing goes normal again if you're conked out cold."  
  
"Thanks," Jared says, struggling to sit up and situate himself beside Jensen, his back to the wall.  
  
"My pleasure."  
  
Jared tries to stand, but Jensen grabs his elbow, holding him back. "Look," he says, shining his flashlight onto the opposite wall. "Best seats in the house."  
  
The pounding in Jared's head and the pain in his lower back are both forgotten. A tableau has been drawn on the cave wall, in white and black and the vibrant color of deep red ochre.  
  
Jared snags the flashlight from Jensen and moves the light slowly from right to left. Some of the drawings have been covered over by others, the technical accuracy improving with time. The first scene is a ring of people with one in the center, humanoid for sure, and probably female, her arms drawn in tiny arcs, inaccurately long and stretched away from her body. Red splashes of color in the shape of wings sprout from her sides. There's a procession beside it, a line of people all holding what looks to be leashes attached to the neck of a kneeling person. Next is a representation of the cave where the two of them now sit, highly stylized and etched in straight lines, the opening painted as a gaping triangle in black. Three unrecognizable beasts float above it, long horned and long legged.  
  
Further along the wall is the figure of a man. White rays of light surround him,  
  
It tells a story and Jared studies it, trying to fit the pieces together. “It’s real,” he says pointing to a spot on the wall. It’s a man, disproportionately tall with white rays of light surrounding him. There’s a smaller figure by his side, and their arms form one continuous line. Connected.  
  
“They’re bonded,” Jared says.  
  
The scene would appear benevolent, were it not for what follows: a huge fire drawn in red swirls that grow looser and looser as they arch toward the roof of the cave. Beyond the fire is a depiction of a terrible monster, a three-headed serpent. Before him a crowd of people bow down in supplication.  
  
Jared is astounded. “I can’t believe we found it. Proof.”  
  
Jensen stands, dusting off the seat of his pants. “It doesn’t prove a thing.”  
  
“It proves everything.”  
  


 

  
  
  
Jared hardly remembers the first hour of the trek back toward the village. He’s chattering away and making plans. Phone calls need to be made to the university back home. Regardless of his personal validation, this is a significant archaeological find. Permits need to be granted and researchers called, the area needs to be secured and readied for preservation.  
  
Jensen is quiet, offering the occasional noncommittal grunt.  
  
“This is huge, you know?” Jared says. “Groundbreaking. It could change the way we—“  
  
Jensen cuts him off. “Sure it _could_. But should it?”  
  
This makes Jared pull up short. “What do you mean?”  
  
“All those stories. It’s like those lost Amazonian tribes who have lived their lives the same way for thousands of years. One day, someone happens to trip across them in some sort of helicopter flyover, and the next thing you know they’re wearing t-shirts that have the Pepsi logo on them and selling trinkets at the closest tourist dive so that they can pay for a color television, and who they were—the _people_ that they were—has become something else.”  
  
Jensen has a point. Jared hates that Jensen has a point. Without slowing his forward movement, Jared hazards a backward glance. “Culture isn’t static. It’s dynamic.”  
  
“Stop making excuses,” Jensen says, then flings his hands out in front with a shout. “Look out!”  
  
Jared spins in time to catch a fallen log in just the wrong way. Arms pinwheeling, he dives into a forward lunge, the strap of his backpack ripping off at the seam as he falls. It’s steep, terribly so. The world turns into flashes of bright blue sky and dirt as Jared tumbles into a rolling fall, takes flight for a second and catches a sapling in the ribs. It isn’t enough to break his momentum, however, and he topples further, his feet catching on a ridge of rock with a steep drop-off beneath him. He pants, takes a quick assessment of his body. A thin sapling is jammed into his armpit and he’s pretty sure he’s bleeding from a dozen different cuts all over his body, and at some point he’s taken a decent blow to the head, but no bones are broken.  
  
The rock at his feet gives away and again he’s falling, scrambling for the ledge that’s rapidly crumbling beneath his fingers. It’s not a free fall. He slams against the rock face and skids down it, seeking purchase on sharp outcroppings of rock and digging in against the scrub trees that stick out of cracks in the stone.  
  
Jared looks up and sees Jensen there. Time seems slip into slow motion, stretching out long. He’s not sure what to expect, although the life flashing before his eyes thing is definitely not happening. Jensen. Jensen is all he can see, the last face before the end, and it’s not what he’d thought it would be. He doesn’t look panicked or surprised or even sad. It doesn’t make sense. The guy looks almost resigned, perhaps a little frustrated. A shade resentful as well.  
  
Something bright flashes and Jensen snaps his fingers. Jared comes to a shuttering stop, nothing but emptiness filling the three feet between him and the rocky ledge below him. He tries to fling his elbow backward and meets some invisible resistance, a slight give like he’s landed on some sort of mattress, a little giving but definitely a barrier. His head is held steady, pillowed on thin air.  
  
Very slowly, he’s lowered to the ground, heart beating so fast that he reckons he can see it banging against his chest, and he suffers a few terrible seconds when he’s fairly sure that he’s about to trade one narrowly averted death for another by heart attack. The palms of his hands are scraped up, long gashes on his shins and he lost a shoe at one point.  
  
Jensen bounds downward on the rock face, showing an agility and a strength that no normal human should possess. Reaching the bottom, he regards Jared with a closed off, guarded expression then kneels beside him.  
  
“You’re fine. Shit,” Jensen says, fast. “That was close. Too close. You’re fine,” he repeats, as if he’s trying to assure both of them of the fact. His touch is a blaze on Jared’s torn up legs, a searing heat accompanied by another blue glow. The air around them crackles with invisible energy, something like static electricity coursing through Jared’s veins. Jensen removes his hands and the skin there is perfect once more. Pristine. The hairs on his legs stand up on end.  
  
Jensen moves to take Jared’s hands, but Jared snatches them back, scuttling backward in an awkward shuffle to put a few feet of space between them. His back hits the cliff and he crawls upward along it, struggling to stand. “What are you?” Jared asks, shaking, amped into overdrive with fear and adrenaline. “Are you the companion? Are you bonded?”  
  
Jensen leans back, folds his hands in his lap. The way he tilts his head back is a challenge.  
  
“No,” he says, calm but defiant. “I’m the dragon.”  
  
Jared’s awestruck. His joints go loose and he collapses toward the ground, but again Jensen eases the fall. His throat goes dry, he tries to swallow and he can’t. He tries to think and he can’t seem to do that either.  
  
Jensen rises and spins on his heel. He’s a few feet away before Jared calls out to him.  
  
“Where are you going?”  
  
Jensen pauses. He turns back, and Jared doesn’t think he’s ever seen so much loneliness in his entire life. It’s a punch to the gut that carries all the force of a wrecking ball. “Home, Jared. I’m finally going home.”  
  
“Wait,” Jared says, his voice a cracked up, splintered thing. “Can I come with you?”  
  
Jensen’s answering smile is like the sun coming out. ‘You would want to?”  
  
“Of course. I’ve been looking for you my whole life.”  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

Home for Jensen isn’t far.  They passed within a quarter mile of the place this morning.   He takes Jared to the ruins of an extensive dwelling, hardly more than a tumbled pile of rocks, some of them glazed iridescent, evidence of some extreme heat.  Moving through the area sure-footed with familiarity, it’s as if he has every tumbled stone memorized.  He pushes away a boulder with an ease that has Jared mystified, and holds his palm up to cast an icy blue light above them as they walk down a wide, stone hewn staircase.  It circles down, lower and lower, growing steeper as they descend.  Jared sticks very close to the wall, letting his upper arm and shoulder brush it constantly, the center of the pit a deep chasm, black and seemingly without end.

  
Jared’s thinking back on the last several days, all the times that he’s been so close to discovering the truth.  Little clues that Jensen might have dropped along the way.  His tendency to appear and disappear, his sudden change in mood when their path brought them this way, the way the Romani greeted him like a long lost friend, regardless of their well-known distrust of strangers.  The charge between them, the furnace hot temperature of his body all the times they touched, his carefully doled out knowledge and silences.

  
It was right there the whole time, spelled out in bold, bright capital letters.  Jared has been so blind. 

  
Jared’s legs ache by the time the staircase bottoms out.  An arched doorway leads into an enormous cavern.  The walls appear slick but are curiously dry.  Jared expects some sort of musty odor that isn’t there.  It smells like dried leaves and rich earth, and something else underlying, something spicy.  It smells like Jensen.  

  
Light spills down from far above fissures in the rock, filtered by the green of leaves, the cavern coming to a peak several stories above their heads.

  
“This is home?” Jared asks.  His mind can’t seem to accept the whole of what he’s learned today, and insists on stuttering, latching onto miniscule details.

  
“It once was.  It might be again.”

  
“Do you have a hoard?  Where’s your treasure?”  He’s only half kidding.

  
“Don’t believe everything that you read,” Jensen says.  

  
“You didn’t answer my question.”

  
“Follow me.”

  
A short tunnel branches off of the main room, wide and arched.  The stone looks to have been melted like candle wax.  Long streams of it puddle onto the ground.  Jared runs his hand down it.  “Odd,” he mumbles.

  
“Pretty neat trick, huh?” Jensen says, smiling.

  
“You did this?”

  
“Had to bust a hole through to the other rooms somehow.  Not like a sledgehammer would be of any use.  Besides, I kinda like how it turned out.”

  
They pass a few other hollowed areas, finally coming to a heavy wooden door with an ornate brass handle.  It opens up to another cavern, nearly as large as the first one they passed through. 

  
Jared’s glad for the wooden door at his back, its solid surface to support his weight as he staggers backward a step.

  
“This is your treasure?”

  
It’s a library the likes of which Jared has never seen, shelves upon shelves of books, three stories tall, the floors separated with wooden scaffolding. Steep staircases and even steeper ladders offer access to the higher reaches.  A thick layer of dust covers everything; it stirs and swirls in lazy motes around their feet.  More leaves and small twigs are piled in the corners.  In the center stands an enormous desk, ringed with a dozen white candles that have dripped onto its surface.    

  
Jensen crosses the room, flicks his fingers by his sides and a score of oil lamps jump into life, casting a warm yellow glow throughout the space.  Jensen turns in a circle, taking in the disarray.   The chair in front of the desk has toppled over at some point, and he rights it, then wipes his hands together to dust them off, as if setting the chair back on its feet has restored some sort of desperately needed order.  

  
Jared thought that he’d find gold, jewels, antiques or some other sort of finery.  Knowing what he does of Jensen, however, he has to admit that this makes a sort of stubborn sense.  Jensen is a keeper of time. More so he’s a keeper of knowledge.  

  
"This place," Jared says, at a loss.

  
"It's been a long time since I've been home," Jensen says, as if he needs to apologize.

  
"This is miraculous," Jared tells him, and swears that Jensen looks proud.  “So, you always return your books, huh?”

  
“Eventually, yes.”

  
Jared wanders along the shelves, skimming the titles and touching the spines of the books, like he’s running his fingers over the keys of a piano.  “It would take me years.”

  
“Years are all I have.”

  
“And knowledge,” Jared points out.

  
“Knowledge is a function of time,” Jensen says. He comes up behind Jared and wraps his arms low around his stomach.  Jared doesn’t flinch, although he’s not sure why.  

  
“You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like.”  Jensen noses at the crook of Jared’s neck.

  
A thought hits Jared.  “I don’t know your name,” he says, taking Jensen by the wrists and placing his hands on his hips.

  
“It’s Jensen,” he says.  “I like it.  I think I’ll keep it for a while.”

  
“What’s your real name?”

  
“I’ve been called a lot of things, but I think I prefer Jensen.  I like the way you say it.”

  
“Where did you come up with it?”

  
“It’s your watchmaker.”  Jensen touches Jared’s wrist.

  
“It’s a good watch,” Jared says, laughing.  

  
“And it’s a good name,” Jensen agrees.  “Are you hungry?  I could fix you something.”

  
“You have a kitchen here?”

  
“Don’t particularly need one,” Jensen says with a shrug.  “Would you like a kitchen?”  The look on his face is eager, heartbreaking in its sincerity.  Jensen wants so very badly to please.

  
“How about food?”

  
“People leave me things.  They’re very generous.”

  
“What happened?  Above.  You used to live there didn’t you?”

  
Jensen’s expression clouds over a little, becomes hazy and far away.  “I had a companion once.  A very long time ago.  She didn’t like it here, underground.  I made her a home, up there.”  He chews on his bottom lip, toes at the dusty floor.  “There was a fire.”

  
“That’s awful,” Jared says, simply.  “You don’t have to—“

  
“It’s fine,” Jensen says.  “It was a bad year.  A lot of people went hungry that year.”  His gaze bores into Jared, suddenly bright and fierce with anger.  “They went even more hungry in the year that followed.”

  
“God, Jensen.  I’m sorry.”  He reaches out to Jensen, but Jensen knocks his hand away.  “Were you?” he’s not sure how to phrase it, but Jensen gets his meaning.

  
“No.  It was never like that.  She was my friend.  For a very long time, she was my only friend.  I loved her, yes.  I was with her for two hundred years.”  He tangles their fingers together, pulls Jared’s hand in close and kisses his palm.   “A thousand wouldn’t have been enough.”

 

 

They’re expecting Jared in Cambridge today.  He’s not there.  

  
Instead, he’s sprawled on a boulder the size of a Volkswagen on the edge of a lake near Jensen’s home.  He’d spent the last two days holed up inside, battering Jensen with a constant onslaught of questions and testing the limits of his powers.  So far, he hasn’t reached it.

  
Jensen’s patience had finally worn thin.  “I’m going swimming, and you’re getting some fresh air,” he’d said.

  
This had spawned a thousand more questions dealing with Jensen’s elemental nature, but Jared had bitten his tongue and followed Jensen outside.

  
Now, Jared lays on his stomach, letting the sun bake his skin dry.  Teodor’s journal is spread out before him.  The guy got a lot of things right.  

  
Jensen comes up behind him, bare feet making a wet slap on the surface of the stone.  The sun has done a job on his shoulders and the back of his neck, tanning them dark and freckled.  His nose is peeling, covered with pinkish new skin.

  
“Did you know him?” Jared asks, flipping to a new page in the journal.  

  
“I thought I said no more questions,” Jensen complains, then answers anyway.  “Yeah.  Bit of a know-it-all if you wanna know the truth.”

  
It’s been two days since he’s shaved and Jared’s gone a little scruffy, the start of a beard uncomfortable as his face dries.  He scratches at his jaw, fingernails scraping across the stubble and wishing he had a razor.

  
“Here,” Jensen says, drawing his knife from his pocket, the blade a dangerous glint in the sunlight.

  
Jared tenses.  “Are you sure?”  

  
“It’s sharp,” Jensen assures him, and skims the edge of the blade on his arm, taking off a small patch of light, fine hair.

  
“Don’t happen to have a mirror in there?” Jared asks, indicating Jensen’s pocket.  “I don’t want to inadvertently cut my nose off.”

  
“Here,” Jensen repeats, and slides in nearer to Jared so that their knees touch.  “Do you trust me?”

  
Jared debates it for a split second.  “Just be careful.”

  
“Always,” Jensen assures him.  He rubs his hands together in a circular pattern.  A whitish foam materializes, warm and smelling of menthol when Jensen applies it to his face.  

  
“Useful,” Jared says.  It occurs to Jared then that Jensen could simply snap his fingers and Jared would be clean-shaven, but that’s one of Jensen’s peculiarities.  There are certain things he stubbornly insists on doing by hand.

  
He’s learned more than that over the last few days.  Jensen has a preference for heights, often haunting the upper levels of the library while Jared weeds through his collection.  His memory is like a lockbox, but he has no real concept of his own age.  His sweet tooth is insatiable, and he’ll disappear for hours at a time, only to return with armloads of candies and baked goods.

As far as he knows, he’s the last of his kind, and he has no idea how he came into being.  One day, he just was.

  
Jensen hikes his chin up to indicate that Jared to do the same.  Jared’s reaction to the first touch of the blade on his jaw is to shrink back and draw a quick breath through his teeth.

  
“Hold still,” Jensen says, squinting in concentration.  “If you bleed, it won’t be my fault.”

  
Jared curls his fingers on his knees, knuckles bumping into Jensen’s legs.  He forces himself to relax through the next cold bite of the blade on the underside of his jaw.  

  
Jensen’s motions are even and confident as he draws the knife along Jared’s cheek, cleaning its blade with a quick flick of his wrist.  

  
“Watch the sideburns,” Jared says.  “I’ve worked hard on those.”

  
“I can tell.”

  
Jensen moves behind him, his chest pressed snug to Jared’s back.  It’s intimate, the way Jensen leans in close, just his profile visible out of the corner of Jared’s eye.  He tips Jared’s head back to rest on his shoulder with two fingers on his chin and his arm brushes against Jared’s.  Jared is very aware of all the places they touch: Jensen’s thighs against the small of his back, Jensen’s chest against his shoulders as he bends in even closer, the fall of Jensen’s breath on the still-damp skin of his neck, the light, unintentional brush of Jensen’s thumb on his bottom lip as Jensen manipulates him.  It makes Jared’s skin light up with heat, an electric zing building in low in his stomach.

  
Facing him again, Jensen takes off his shirt to wipe away the last traces of shaving cream.  His gaze is intent on Jared’s mouth when he slides his hand along Jared’s jaw.  

  
Their boundaries have shifted since Jared’s learned the truth.  Jensen’s still tactile, nudging at Jared to get his attention, touching his shoulder in greeting or goodbye without hesitation, but it’s clear that they’re both treading on uncertain ground.

  
Jared touches his face, sliding his fingers in between Jensen’s for a moment.  “Smooth,” he says, his voice sounding like a rusty door cracking open.  He’s half hard and praying that Jensen won’t notice, his body sending him a signal that’s loud and clear.

  
Jensen licks his lips, a tiny frown line marring the smooth skin between his brows as he inspects his work.  “I like you better this way.  C’mon.  Let’s get going.  I’m sure you want to put me back under the microscope.”

  
“Do you have a microscope?”

  
“No.”

  
“Could you possibly _get_  a microscope?”

  
“No.  Absolutely not.”  

 

 

Jared enters the library, the room set aglow with a forest of candles.

  
A new table has appeared in the center.  Two chairs sit side by side, ornately carved and fitted with thick purple velvet cushions.  The table is set with china, so delicate that it’s nearly transparent, gleaming silverware and fine crystal wine glasses.

  
In his ratty t-shirt and jeans, Jensen seems out of place, like a frat boy at the Four Seasons.  Jared is even more so, sweaty and grimy from several hours spent mapping out the underground terrain.

  
Confused, Jared says, “What’s the occasion?”

  
“Dinner,” Jensen answers, pulling out Jared’s chair then filling their glasses with red wine, dark and thick.

  
“If I’d known, I would have at least gotten cleaned up.”

  
“It can be arranged.”

  
Jared smiles.  Jensen’s paid attention.  Spread out before him is a hodgepodge feast: half a dozen of the sandwiches that Jared had first tasted at the village festival, a loaf of dark bread spotted with olives, skara slathered with gravy, and bite-sized sweet rolls dipped in honey.  He doesn’t know where to begin.

  
Something is off tonight with Jensen.  He’s jumpy and overly attentive, filling Jared’s glass the second it empties, offering monosyllabic responses to Jared’s attempts at conversation.  Jared’s anxious by association.  If a dragon is nervous, it has to be something big.

  
“Alright,” Jared says finally, slouching in his chair, pleasantly full and mildly tipsy.  “Spill.”

  
The fork in Jensen’s hand clatters to his plate.  “You’re still here,” he says.

  
Jared’s response is cautious.  “I can go.”  The very thought of it creates a hollow place in his chest.

  
“That’s not what I mean.  Not at all.  You can stay, but it has to be your choice.”  

  
The words are too small for such an all-encompassing idea.  Jared’s mind reels as he tries to distill Jensen’s offer into terms he can understand.  It’s impossible.

  
“I’m scared of you,” Jared starts, and silences Jensen with a finger across his lips when he opens his mouth to speak.  “And I want to know everything about you.  I’ve never known a more generous soul.  You amaze me.  Every single thing about you amazes me.”  

  
Jared drags in a deep breath, clutches at the back of Jensen’s neck and kisses him hard.  It’s only been a few days, but he’s missed the taste of Jensen’s mouth.  “I’m not saying yes, but I’m also not saying no.”

  
“Fair enough,” Jensen says, grinning.

 

 

The bathtub is an enormous thing, hammered out of brass and standing on clawed feet.  Jensen has spent the last many minutes making trips back and forth to an underground water source, buckets in each hand sloshing water onto the floor.  

  
Jared strips, letting his clothes fall to a pile.  The chill radiating off of the stone walls makes his skin pebble, and he tests the water with a careful finger.  It’s freezing.  Jensen tips one last bucket into the tub and dips a hand past the surface, water rippling around his wrist.  Immediately the water starts to steam, skinny tendrils rising upward.

  
Jared steps in and hisses.

  
“Too hot?” Jensen asks.

  
“Just right.” Jared feels his muscles unwind as he sinks in up to his neck, the ends of his hair getting wet and stringy.  

  
Jensen balances on the edge of the bath, his face split in an appreciative smile as he drags his eyes along Jared’s body, frank and open.  The scrutiny makes Jared blush as much as it turns him on, his cock already half hard and getting harder.  Jensen scrubs Jared’s back with soap that’s fragrant and spicy, slipping his hands lower and lower along Jared’s spine, kneading at his muscles as he goes.  

  
The food and wine have made Jared lazy, but he perks up when Jensen peels his shirt over his head, his wet sleeves catching at his wrists.  “What do you really look like?”

  
“I look like this.”  He drops his pants and steps into the bath, straddling Jared’s thighs and sending a small waterfall over the edge.    
“Why?  Would you rather I look like someone else?”

  
Jared almost swallows his own tongue.  It’s a close thing.  “No.  Fuck no.  This works fine.  I, ah.  I wouldn't change a thing.”

  
Jensen slides forward, his chest flush against Jared’s and their cocks trapped between their soap-slippery bellies.  His nails scrape along Jared’s scalp, and he kisses Jared deeply, prying past Jared’s lips and teeth and licking across Jared tongue with deliberate swipes, hot and wet and so good.  

  
Pulling back to look at Jensen, the flecks of gold in his eyes and the dusting of freckles spread across his cheekbones, and that full, plush mouth, Jared wonders if perhaps Jensen made it all up for him, wonders if Jensen somehow wormed into his head to fashion himself perfectly into everything Jared could ever want or need or wish to have.

  
“I could say the same thing about you,” Jensen says with a roll of his hips. Their cocks drag together with a light, teasing pressure.  

  
“That’s not fair,” Jared points out, spreading his thighs wider, planting his heels on the wall of the tub and bending at the knee, bracketing Jensen in his lap.  “Have you been doing that all along?”

  
“Sometimes you think very loudly,” Jensen says, “and it’s even louder when I’m touching you.”

  
“Maybe you’ll just have to stop touching me then.”

  
“Not on your life,” Jensen says.  To prove his point, he reaches between their bodies and circles Jared’s cock with a firm grip, stroking him once from the base to the tip.  

  
It’s Jared’s turn to control the kiss and he loses himself in the easy way Jensen opens up for him, letting Jared explore him with his tongue, the silken ridges on the roof of his mouth and the hard, slick surfaces of his teeth.  Everything about Jensen is heated, the stuttering slide of his hand on Jared’s back and the shift of his body against Jared’s, the way that they precisely in his palm, like they were made for exactly that.

  
Blood rushes in Jared’s veins and sets his nerve endings alight.  He slips his hand into the water, following the rise of Jensen’s ass.  He reaches back even further, his finger finding Jensen’s rim.  Jensen arches into him at his first touch, his cock a hard ridge pressed against Jared’s belly, and his mouth falling open on a quiet sigh.  Jared presses against the tight ring of muscle, gentle and cautious and Jensen spreads his thighs wider, sloshing more water on to the floor.  

  
The bathtub is only about half full now, and already starting to cool in the chilly air.  Jensen notices stills.  For a moment Jensen burns so hot it almost hurts, fast like a blast furnace and Jared thinks he’s going to be left with welts where Jensen’s arms are wrapped around his neck and the spots where Jensen’s thighs rest against his own.  The flash of heat subsides, and a fresh cloud of steam rises around them.

  
“You’re pretty useful to have around,” Jared says, angling his neck so that Jensen has plenty of room to nip and suck at his jaw.

  
Jensen raises up, thighs trembling as he holds himself aloft, water coursing down the front of him and highlighting his toned chest and stomach.  Slow, achingly slow, he sinks onto Jared’s cock, the tight, perfect heat sending shockwaves up Jared’s spine.  He struggles to not buck up into it, and holds his breath as Jensen fucks down, his teeth gritted against the stretch.  Jared can feel it when Jensen gives in, relaxing around the length of him, his forehead falling on Jared’s shoulder as he catches his breath.   

  
It takes all of Jared’s willpower to keep still, allow Jensen the time to adjust.  His pulse pounds heavy and hard in every square inch of his body, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.  He wants to buck up, find a way to get further inside.  Find a way to get under Jensen’s skin, just like Jensen is under his.   He wants every little piece of him.

  
“But you already have me,” Jensen says. “You’ve had me from the start.”  He levers himself upward, his rim stretching around the thick head of Jared’s cock, only to slam back down forcefully, his ass slapping against Jared’s thighs.   All the air is punched from Jared lungs and he’s left panting, trying to stave of his orgasm as Jensen sets a rhythm of shallow thrusts. 

  
Despite the muggy heat of the room,  Jensen is shivering in Jared’s arms, his movements growing faster and more urgent.  “Jared, fuck.  Come on.”

  
Jensen’s cock is flushed red, slapping against his stomach as Jensen works himself up and down.  Jared wraps his fingers around the base and jacks him off with quick strokes, Jensen’s cock twitching against his palm.

  
Jensen bites down on his bottom lip, leeching the color from it as his orgasm takes hold, legs shaking and his rim tightening around Jared’s cock.  He gasps, almost surprised, his eyes preternaturally bright as the first wave his and he shoots over Jared’s hand, slick spunk spattering on Jared’s chest.

  
Jared’s never seen anything more beautiful than Jensen in that moment, his head flung back and knuckles white on the metal edge of the tub.  He slings his other arm around Jared’s neck, pulling them together for another breathless kiss, and right then, Jared is certain of only one thing:  Jensen is his.  His for as long as Jared wants him.

 

 

Jensen sits cross legged on the floor of the main room, his back to the spiraling staircase that leads above ground, and Jared’s small collection of luggage that sits at its base.  Scattered in front of him are tiny toothed gears, nuts and bolts and cogs of all shapes and sizes.  He’s inspecting the face of a clock, the color of ancient parchment or old lace.  Part of the mechanism is already assembled and sitting at his knee.  His head is bowed, his face set in a frown of concentration.  

  
Jared has spent three straight days cataloguing Jensen’s library, trying to make sense of his system of organization.  The collection is impressive, spanning centuries.  He’s learned that Jensen has an affinity for journals, personal diaries and first-hand accounts.  Jared can relate.

  
Jensen doesn’t acknowledge his presence, and instead holds one disassembled hand of the clock up to the light.  It’s gold filigree, thin almost to the point of transparency, and amazingly detailed, miniscule whorls of metal leading up to a needle-sharp point.

  
“It’s beautiful,” Jared says.

  
“It’s for you.”

  
“Thank you, but you should keep it.  This is a lot of work just to give away.”  He doesn’t know how to accept such a gift, but one thing he does know is that they’re not talking about a clock.  Not entirely.  

  
“Time doesn’t mean much to me.  I’ve never been one to keep track.  I’ll leave that up to you.”

  
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” Jared says.

  
“I’m not asking anything.  I’m telling you that I’ll be here.  I’ll wait for you.  I’ll always wait for you.”

  
“You won’t have to wait for long.  I promise.”

 

fin.

Thanks for reading.

 


End file.
